Poison
by AnniePants
Summary: It's America, 1960, and things aren't what they seem. There's a new president, a conspiracy hidden deep within the government, and a forbidden love affair that will change one family forever.
1. Chapter 1

**_Poison_**

_**"In every tyrant's heart there springs in the end this poison, that he cannot trust a friend." Aeschylus**_

****

"Damn nation!" Teena hissed under her breath. Her husband was still out, probably working (since he surely wasn't running errands or doing anything helpful), so she knew that whispering her curses was ridiculous. Bill became offended if she cursed, though he did so often himself. He had been brought up in an old fashioned home and thus now believed that ladies shouldn't use four letter words like damn.

"God damn it!" Teena spat, louder this time, enjoying the emphasis of each word.

The guests would be arriving in less than an hour, and here she was in the upstairs powder room with half a bottle of perfume seeping into her freshly starched petticoats. With an exaggerated sigh of frustration, Teena unbuttoned the garment at the waist and let the soft layers of satin whisper to the floor so that she now stood in front of the full-length mirror in only her bra and girdle. A small glint of silver at the hollow of her collar bone reminded her that she'd forgotten to remove the necklace she often wore under her blouse. She tilted her head forward, pushed the rollers curling her hair aside, and undid the tiny clasp. For a brief moment, she gazed at the Star of David cradled in her palm before quickly burying it in the top drawer of her vanity table. Frantically, she began rummaging through the dirty clothes hamper in search of a passable petticoat.

"Honey, what are you doing? Everyone will be here soon, and you aren't even dressed yet."

Teena glanced over her shoulder to see Bill leaning against the doorframe.

"I've had no time today! First I had to go to the market to make sure Laney had all of the ingredients for her recipes, and then I had to see about the flowers and the champagne and the decorations and the cleaning…I only started dressing about twenty minutes ago, but I ruined my petticoat so now I have to find another!"

"Calm down, darling. You can always play hostess in your undergarments. It doesn't matter what you do, you'll always be beautiful."

Teena sighed and smiled despite herself as her husband, always the charmer, helped her to her feet and pressed a warm kiss against her forehead. He cradled her cheeks with his palms and gently brushed his lips over hers.

"Where have you been?" she breathed against his mouth.

"Work," he whispered. "It's been a long day."

She turned her head to rest on his shoulder.

"I wish I knew what it is you do all day," she muttered.

"Honey, I can't—"

"Talk about it. Yes, I know. The work is for the State Department, and it's classified," Teena sighed.

"I'm sorry. But guess what? I don't have to be in Washington on Friday after all. How about you and I take a drive through Maine this weekend? We'll go to a bed and breakfast in the mountains and drink hot chocolate and watch the snow fall. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful," she smiled sweetly, knowing it would never happen.

"I'll greet the guests as they start to arrive. Take all the time you need."

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before scurrying down the hall. She heard the locks click as he turned the key in his office door.

--

Teena rested her forearm against the evergreen-draped oak banister in the foyer. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her crimson silk evening dress and absently twirled the string of cream pearls at her neck with her pointer finger. A cacophony of voices and laughter floated around the corner from the kitchen and sitting parlor in the back of the house. They were mostly Bill's friends and acquaintances, since this was primarily a holiday gathering for the men with whom he worked. She'd become acquainted with some of their wives over the past few years, but her relationship with them had never passed small talk. At a party last year, she'd tried speaking in confidence with some of the other women about the disturbing secrecy enveloping their husbands' lives, but it seemed that she was the only one interested in the subject. Popular topics included children and fashion and cooking and nannies—nothing Teena cared to discuss. Now her heart fluttered with nerves at the prospect of entertaining a group of nearly strangers. She told herself she was being ridiculous, plastered a friendly smile onto her ruby red lips, and turned the corner toward the parlor, her skirt swishing around her narrow hips as she moved.

--

"Teena! There you are, darling. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come out. You remember Ronald," Bill gestured to the flushed, jovial, curly-haired man standing beside him.

"May I say, you look lovelier than ever, Mrs. Mulder!" Ronald exclaimed. He clumsily placed his champagne glass on the kitchen counter, liquid sloshing over the rim, and extended his hand. Teena politely shook it and smiled warmly.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Ronald. How have you been?"

"Well, no wife yet, but I'm still looking. Of course, the work keeps me busy… Now, when are you going to have some kids? The two of you together, you would have beautiful children. You've been married for, what is it, five years now?"

"Four," Bill replied.

Teena felt her cheeks grow hot, and she dropped her chin to examine the linoleum beneath her feet.

"All in good time," Bill said lightly, "It's best not to rush things."

"Oh of course, of course," Ronald chortled, taking another swig of champagne. "Do you have any eggnog? I know we have awhile before Christmas, but I could really go for some eggnog."

--

Teena felt as though she was missing out on some integral part of life but couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Sadness wasn't necessarily the root of the problem; it was more of an emptiness, really. If she told Bill about it, he would laugh at her and say she was being silly. The ladies giggled as they sipped their wine and played cards, discussing the shopping in New York City. Teena felt herself staring into space while the hurt within her seemed to grow stronger. She pushed it away and sat up straighter when the conversation finally broke, clearing her throat.

"So what are your opinions of John Kennedy? I think his presidency will do quite a lot for this country. Finally, someone is willing to not only address, but actually do something about poverty and raising the minimum wage. And he promises to instigate new laws for civil rights. It's time for equality in America," Teena said, hoping to start a more interesting discussion.

The women sat in silence, regarding her quizzically, until one finally spoke up. "I think my husband voted for Nixon," she said.

"Please excuse me for a moment. I'll be passing through the kitchen, is there anything I can get for any of you?" Teena asked as she pulled her chair back from the card table.

The women smiled politely and shook their heads as Teena fled.

--

She released a sigh of relief as she stepped outside onto the back porch. Her breath made a little white puffy cloud in the icy air in front of her mouth. Teena shivered and wrapped her arms tightly around her body as she gazed out into the field and the thicket of trees beyond, all bathed in winter starlight. Patches of golden light spilled out from the first floor windows and the voices from inside blended together in a distant hum as the party continued into the tipsy hour of the night. At least she knew she wasn't missed. She reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a pack of Morley's and a box of matches. Delicately placing the cigarette between her lips, she removed a match from the small pack and struck it with no result. The box must have gotten wet somehow, probably from spilled champagne.

"Damn," she whispered, dropping the useless matches back into her pocket.

"Please, let me," a man's voice offered, fracturing the silence.

Teena gasped, startled, one hand flying to her heart. "Who's there?" she asked, slightly alarmed that she hadn't been alone.

"I'm sorry. I didn't intend to frighten you."

The man stepped toward her from the far left corner of the porch. He was tall and thin with dark hair, but she couldn't make out his features in the shadows. Suddenly a tiny spark illuminated warm, dark hazel eyes that sparkled with flecks of green. Teena hesitantly leaned into the flame of his chrome lighter until the tip of her cigarette glowed a soft orange. She inhaled deeply and stepped back to a safe distance.

"Are you one of my husband's guests?" Teena asked as she turned away from him to look into the night, attempting to conceal her unease.

"Yes, though a very poor one at that. I'm afraid I lack respectable social skills. Parties make me nervous, even when I'm acquainted with everyone present," he replied. His voice was soft and smooth, like running a hand over velvet.

"I don't like them much either. I guess I've stumbled on your hiding place."

"I suppose you have…I'm sorry, I should introduce myself. Well I did warn you that I lack social skills. My name is Christopher Spender. Chris."

"I'm Teena," she replied, taking his hand.

"Yes, I know. Bill talks about you all the time. I feel like we've already met."

For a brief moment, silence fell between them, but it felt more natural than awkward. Teena quickly moved back when she realized she'd neglected to drop his hand.

"So you work with Bill?" she asked, nonchalantly taking a long drag.

"Yes. We've known one another for a long while actually. We met in service in the army ten years ago, and our paths have crossed multiple times since then. And now our work brings us together often."

"Why haven't I seen you at any of the other parties?"

"I admit I'm anti-social. Usually I avoid these events…I should have attended your wedding, though. I received an invitation, but unfortunately business took me elsewhere that weekend. I heard it was a lovely ceremony."

"Yes it was," Teena replied softly.

"Are you happy?" he asked after a long pause.

"Yes, of course! Why do you ask?" she questioned defensively.

"No particular reason, though you are fleeing your own party, so I was just curious if something is wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"When you first walked out…you seemed sad. Never mind."

"You were watching me the whole time?"

"I'm sorry. I'll go inside and give you your privacy."

"No, please stay. I wouldn't mind the company…but to answer your question truthfully, isn't everyone a bit sad?"

"Why are _you_ sad?" he asked.

"I don't even know really. Maybe because I can't seem to fit in at parties or maybe because…I get bored with this life sometimes or maybe because I wish I really knew my husband and I wish he really knew me."

Teena flinched after the words had spilled out of her, and she felt the flush of embarrassment rising in her chest. What had possessed her to speak so openly with a complete stranger when she had trouble sharing her thoughts with her closest friends?

"Everyone is a stranger. We live in little worlds of our own, always instinctively shutting out those we love. That's what life has taught me at least," Chris shrugged, "He who learns must suffer."

"And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart—"she continued, and his soft baritone joined her, "and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."

"You know Aeschylus?" he asked.

"Like my heart," she replied.

"Look! I think it's starting to snow," Chris noticed as he gazed out over the field. Sure enough, little white flurries danced in the air, settling lazily atop the frozen earth.

Teena smiled and pulled her sweater closed tighter when she became aware of her shivering and put out her cigarette on the glass top of the patio table. Chris removed his long wool coat, offering it to her.

"You'll freeze," Teena said.

"I'll be fine."

"Thank you," she murmured, draping the coat over her shoulders.

"It's frigid out here! You two are crazy!"

Teena jumped when Bill's voice called out from the kitchen doorway.

"Honey, I've been looking for you everywhere! Were you trying to steal my wife, Chris?"

"Not at all. I think we both just needed a little escape from the crowd inside," Chris said.

"Understandable, but come back in now before you catch a cold."

Teena turned and followed her husband back indoors. She looked over her shoulder before letting the screen door fall shut to see Chris' back turned to the house as he lit up a cigarette, wisps of smoke floating into the night.

--

AN: Thanks for reading! This is a WIP; I plan on updating weekly, but possibly more frequently than that. All comments/criticisms welcome!


	2. Chapter 2

Women…why is it that he always became fixated on those he could never have? The throw-away types were always plentiful with their sultry voices in seedy nightclubs and Marilyn Monroe-esque deep plunging necklines and blonde locks. His thoughts that Monday morning, however, centered on the chocolate brown eyes and chestnut curls of a certain friend's wife as he leisurely climbed the winding staircase in the Stratford building in New York City. Of course the woman with whom he felt a connection was Bill Mulder's wife. Of course. How typical. He chastised himself for obsessing over something so trivial. She wasn't the first intelligent, beautiful woman to dance across his path and she wouldn't be the last; and with that thought, he firmly pushed all traces of her out of his mind. Or rather, he attempted to. Good enough.

Chris ran his fingers through his dark hair and took an exceedingly unpleasant gulp of the bitterest cup of coffee he'd quite possibly ever tasted. He wrinkled his nose in protest but forced a swallow anyway before chucking it into a waste basket, knowing that in order to survive hours of covert summits, a healthy dose of caffeine would be necessary. And nicotine. Always nicotine, and especially for breakfast. He'd already acquiesced to that particular morning repas. One would think his life would seem more fulfilling due to the status he'd acquired—the power of knowing and dealing in secrets and lies of which the vast majority of the world remained blissfully ignorant. Knowledge, however, just like everything else, came with a price, and Chris often wondered if it was worth the trouble. Sometimes he would lie in bed at night, trying to remember the reasons he'd decided to climb this ladder, and more often than not, the answers didn't exist. He believed what hedid was right, and that conviction propelled him forward through days of monotony and living his life fifty years from now, as opposed to the present. The Earth could sleep a bit easier because of him, even if nobody knew or cared who to thank.

When he came to the set of oak hand-carved double doors, Chris pressed the eye of the little wooden cherub in the center, just above its triangular nose—the Syndicate's tribute to the Bhavarian Illuminati. The triangle flipped around with a mechanical buzz, revealing a palm-sized keypad. Chris quickly typed the 5-digit code—24601, and pushed the heavy doors until they swung open and brusquely locked behind him with a slam. He trudged down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway to the common parlor at the far north end, where a fire blazed in the hearth against the winter chill. A set of black leather winged-back chairs formed a semi-circle around the fireplace. The rich, spicy aroma of imported cigars floated about the room, whispering to Chris that he was not the only member to arrive early. Bill Mulder sat in a chair nearest the fire, puffing lightly on a Cuban while staring into the flames.

"Good morning, Chris. Lovely day, is it not?" the voice came from the bar at the opposite end of the high-ceilinged parlor.

He turned to see Ronald dressed in his typical blue pin-stripe with a bottle of Russian vodka dangling in one hand. Chris gazed at the grey morning outside the large rectangular windows, icy sheets of rain pattering against the glass.

"I am sure it is a great mistake always to know enough to go in when it rains.  
One may keep snug and dry by such knowledge,but one misses a world of loveliness," he replied.

"Enough of the poetic crap, please. Would you like something to drink? Tea or coffee? Or perhaps a refreshing gin and tonic?"

"No thank you. I'm quite well."

Chris took a seat at the fire beside Bill.

"What bothers you this morning?" he asked.

Bill startled slightly, seeming to notice Chris' presence for the first time.

"An argument with my wife, actually."

Chris flinched at the mention of her and felt a flush emanating from his collar.

"What sort of argument?" he inquired cautiously, resting his gaze on the flames that rolled and licked over the logs.

"The usual…she wants me to tell her 'the truth' about my life. Of course, I'm away most of the time, so she's lonely. I told her we could see about getting a dog, but no, she wants a baby."

"And you don't want children?"

"Of course I do, it's just that we've been married for four years and it seems that children would have already arrived if we were to have them. I told her this and then she suggested we adopt an orphan or something, which is just ridiculous…Well, she'll get over it in time, I suppose. It's only another phase."

"Phase?"

"Like I said, she gets lonely all by herself in that large house, so she finds little projects to occupy her time. She took up the violin last year, and she writes constantly," Bill snorted.

"What does she write?"

"Damned if I know…You're not scheduled to attend the next parlay, are you?"

"No."

"Great, then how about Teena and I have you over Christmas Eve? She loves preparing small dinner parties, especially during the holidays. I'm sure the cleaning and planning would cheer her right up, and she'll enjoy getting to know you. She doesn't really have any friends of her own."

"Um, sure Bill. That sounds fine."

A low hum of chatter permeated the silence as the men began filing into the room for the business of the day. One by one the chairs around the fireplace filled, and after a few minutes, Frank took his place before the group, leaning one elbow against the mantle. Light from the hearth shined in his neatly-gelled jet black hair.

"Our first order of business today, gentlemen, is to discuss the newest development in our Purity Control plan. The vaccination against the black cancer is still in its earliest stages, of course, but there will be a need to test its effects. One of our scientists has suggested distribution through a control group via small pox inoculation," Frank announced in his clipped, British accent.

--

"Chris, before you go, our superiors informed me earlier that they wish to meet with you privately downstairs," Frank said quietly, placing his hand on Chris' forearm to stop him at the door.

"What for?" Chris asked, breathing out a small sigh of annoyance.

"I don't know. They certainly don't tell me everything, but they've taken a liking to you, I think. It sounded like some sort of side assignment."

"I don't go on active duty for another three months."

"Well, perhaps it isn't military related. Once again, I have no idea. Cheers."

**--**

"Mr. Spender, please take a seat."

Chris decided to comply instead of retorting that he preferred to stand. The power that these three men nonchalantly slung around intimidated him. Best to remain on their good sides. The three 'superiors' of the Syndicate operated deep within the secret bowels of the U.S. government. Men without lives. Men without names. Chris couldn't imagine such an existence. He sat across the desk from the man with snow white hair and coke bottle glasses, while the other two remained looming near the door. The old man lit up a clove cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke calculatedly into Chris's face, but he didn't flinch. This seemed to please the man; a wry smile curled over his thin lips as he flicked ashes onto the surface of the antique desk.

"Mr. Spender," the old man grumbled in a deep, graveled voice, "You have shown a dedication to the project exceeding that of the other members. You possess strength and wisdom beyond your years, and you are clearly devoted to the service of your country."

Chris raised an eyebrow, unsure of where this might be going. "Thank you, sir."

"Therefore we have decided to give you this assignment, because you will surely handle it with the utmost respect, importance, and urgency."

"I will do my best, sir. What is it you want me to do?"

The old man sighed as he glanced at the sheets of slushy, grey rain pounding against the windowpane.

"We have a problem in Africa. As you probably know, the Congo is a key area of the geopolitics of the country, and because of its wealth and size, it would pose a serious threat to western society if the regime were to become radicalized."

"Yes, and there is reason to distrust the prime minister since he received aid from the Soviets," Chris replied.

"Exactly. Communism poses a serious threat not only to our country but to our work as well. This is the reason the problem must be eliminated as soon as possible."

"And how do you propose I do that, sir?"

"I am appointing you task force leader in the assassination plot of Patrice Emery Lumumba."

"You want me to kill the prime minister?" Chris asked shakily, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.

"You are quite astute, Mr. Spender."

--

Teena sat curled over the baby grand piano with her legs tucked beneath her. She wore Bill's flannel sheepskin robe but still found her teeth chattering due to drafts in the old house. Outside the large bay window, the world snuggled under a blanket of white. Thick gusts of snowflakes danced in the air, several of them sticking to the thin sheet of ice covering the glass on the window panes. She squinted into the blizzard, but it was no use, the ocean was invisible at this distance. The water was always so beautiful when it snowed; it transformed into a mixture of midnight and ice blue glass in place of the typical grey-green froth. Bill had called her earlier to tell her that his flight was delayed until late tonight on account of the storm, and he had also demanded that she remain indoors.

Teena hated staying in the house alone at night. All of the open spaces still made her feel uneasy, as though her movements were being watched from the shadows. The building was designed in the antebellum period, and the property on the Vineyard had been occupied by the Mulder family long before then. Creaking of floorboards upstairs and wind whistling through shutters spoke of the long history of the house. Once, in a waking dream, Teena swore she had heard anxious whispers in the hallway outside her bedroom door, along with the faint weeping of a small child. She knew that somehow echoes of the past lived within these walls, and she believed that lost spirits might wander the halls at night. The thought was both frightening and fascinating, and Teena found herself shivering in the light of day as a chill traveled the length of her spine.

She padded across the Oriental rug in her bobby socks to turn up the volume on the television. _Double Indemnity _had been playing silently on the screen, which was her favorite way to see a movie. It was more fun to guess what steamy words of deceit could be flowing from Barbara Stanwyck's luscious mouth as opposed to actually hearing them, but today the silence was becoming a bit overpowering. On her way back to her perch at the window, Teena grabbed the leather-bound journal from the bookcase. She lifted the hidden flap in the back to reveal a tiny silver key that would open the lock to her most treasured secrets. Grabbing a pencil from the inside pocket, she flipped through pages of her dainty, cursive script that spanned the previous ten years, until she at last came to a blank page. Without pondering what to write, her hand instinctively glided over the cream-colored paper.

_The little boy waits outside his mother's bedroom. He wears a blue overcoat and deerskin britches—his Sunday best. His hair is rich chestnut brown and his eyes sparkle with flecks of green. He refuses to let the tears spill over. The grandfather clock chimes the third hour of the afternoon. Suddenly, Father rushes out of the room with the doctor, and they speak in hushed, frightened voices in the hallway. She doesn't have much time…Fox cannot cease the flow of tears._

"Pardon me…Mrs. Mulder?"

Teena gasped in surprise and looked up to see Laney, the housekeeper, standing in the entryway from the foyer, her arms folded across her large chest.

"What do you need, Laney?"

"I finished the dusting and polishing upstairs, ma'am. I was wondering if I might go on and leave now instead of at nine, since the weather might be harder to journey through later. There's a casserole in the fridge. You just gotta heat it up."

"Thank you. You're welcome to stay the night, though, if it's too dangerous outside. The visibility looks pretty bad."

"Oh no ma'am, I'll be just fine. I've been living in the north for nearly sixty-five years now."

"All right, but be careful. I'll see you in the morning, weather permitting."

"Oh! One more thing before I go. One of the floorboards gave out on me upstairs right outside the door to your husband's office. I found this trapped under the floor."

Laney extended an open palm to Teena, revealing an old-fashioned, golden key.

"I figured you or Mr. Mulder must've dropped it through the floorboards."

"That's fine, Laney thank you," Teena replied, brusquely taking the key and shoving it into the pocket of her robe.

After the old woman bustled out the front door, Teena realized that her pulse was thudding rapidly in her ears. A spare to his office, no doubt, since none of the other rooms upstairs had keyholes in the doors. In the four years she had been living in this house, she'd never seen the inside of that room. How could he have made such a mistake to leave it in an obvious place if what he kept hidden was so sacred? She quickly stood, the journal sliding off her lap and landing in a heap on the hardwood floor. Slowly she walked to the foot of the staircase and gazed up into the heart of the mystery.

Teena's fingers delicately brushed over the smooth oak surface of the door until they reached the brass knob. Her hand shook in anticipation as she placed the key in the lock, discovering without surprise that it was a perfect fit. She told herself this was wrong, that it would be an infringement of his privacy. But he refused to tell her anything. For years he'd been lying, and she knew it. Wasn't it her right to know, as his wife, who her husband really was? Small secrets were one thing; every marriage had small secrets, but husbands and wives should not be estranged to this degree. And on top of that, this was her home too, and _he _had left a spare key under a broken floorboard.

Teena held her breath as the lock clicked harshly in the silence. She pushed the door open with a creak and groped along the wall for a light switch. Immediately, she came upon a small end table near the door and pulled a lamp cord. The room looked ordinary enough; it was filled with typical office furniture: a desk, a filing cabinet, floating bookshelves. However, the shutters on the windows were sealed from the inside with black paint, the room remaining hidden from the outside. Having no idea where to start, Teena strode over to the filing cabinet and pulled a stack of folders from the top drawer. She plopped onto the oversized wine-colored swivel chair and spread the papers across the desk. The first manila folder contained a cover sheet in the front that read—

**BRIEFING DOCUMENT: OPERATION MAJESTIC 12 **

**PREPARED FOR PRESIDENT-ELECT DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER: (EYES ONLY) **

**18 NOVEMEBR, 1952 **

**WARNING: This is a TOP SECRET - EYES ONLY document containing **

**compartmentalized information essential to the national security of **

**the United States. EYES ONLY ACCESS to the material herin is strictly **

**limited to those possessing Majestic-12 clearance level. Reproduction **

**in any form or the taking of written or mechanically transcribed notes **

**is strictly forbidden. **

**TOP SECRET**

This wasn't a big surprise; she knew Bill worked on classified projects all the time. She flipped the first page over and scanned fervently, though she did not understand much of the cryptic information.

**On 24 June, 1947, a civilian pilot, flying over the Cascade Mountains **

**in the State of Washington observed nine flying disc-shaped aircraft traveling in formation at a high rate of speed. Although this was not the first known sighting of such objects, it was the first to gain widespread attention in the public media. On 07 July, 1947, a secret operation was begun to assure recovery of the wreckage of this object for scientific study. During the course of this operation, aerial reconnaissance discovered that four small human-like beings had apparently ejected from the craft at some point before it exploded.**

Teena glared at the words in disbelief. Surely this was some kind of false testimony pertaining to the weather balloon crash in New Mexico over a decade before. She remembered all of the flying saucer craziness that came up in the news before the rumors were finally dispelled. What could Bill possibly be doing with these documents? Her brows furrowed with unease as she tucked the papers back into the folder and reached for another labeled "Project Blue Book and the Roswell Incident". These papers consisted of strings of letters that looked like nothing more than gibberish; so she grabbed another file with the phrase "Purity Control" penciled across the front with Bill's scrawled hand writing on notebook paper inside—

_**Paper Clip failing more quickly than anticipated**_

_**Vaccine?**_

_**Ruse in place to earn their trust**_

"TEENA? Sweetheart, I'm home early! Are you upstairs?" Bill's voice suddenly boomed from the foyer. Teena froze, her blood running cold.

--

**AN: Official excerpt from MJ Documents**


	3. Chapter 3

Smooth, lilting notes of jazz flowed from the small stage and enveloped the smoke-filled nightclub in a pleasant heat, combating the frozen slush outside. Tear-drop Christmas lights hung around the bar and tables, the fogginess in the air causing them to glow like dancing orbs. Chris took a sip of his dry martini and licked his lips. _Embers_ was, in his opinion, the best club that New York City's nightlife had to offer, at least north of 54th Street. Jazz pianists always played until two, and then the white crowd slowly thinned out by two-thirty when African blues took the stage until dawn. He came here often to unwind, sometimes staying until the diner across the street opened for breakfast.

Tonight he found relaxation difficult; and his hands clenched with tension and nervous energy. Tiny rivulets swirled outward from the mini-whirlpool in the martini glass as he spun the olive toothpick in fast circles. A shadowed figure in a long grey coat and a drenched, black hat pulled low on his forehead approached Chris' hidden corner. The man removed his hat, ruffled his curly hair, and plopped into the chair across from Chris with a "humph".

"Hey, excuse me," the man said, grabbing the sleeve of a waiter breezing past, "I'll take a Manhattan. Dry. No olives. So," he said, turning to Chris, "why the secret meeting?"

"I just need someone to talk to, Ronald."

"What's happened now?"

"You know I could be killed for telling you this."

"How many times have I heard that? Just say it already."

Chris chewed his bottom lip in hesitation, then sighed and shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't as though he hadn't broken the 'top secret in confidence' thing before.

"I've been given a special assignment, and I…I don't think I can go through with it," he admitted before falling silent.

"Am I supposed to guess what it is?"

"Murder."

Ronald leaned back in his chair and nodded, playing with the stubble at his chin.

"Can I ask who—"

"Patrice Lumumba. Prime minister of the Republic of the Congo. He's a nationalist, highly respected. They want him killed because of his radical ideas regarding African isolationism and his ties with the Soviet Union."

"Hmm…Men have been killed for less. When will the operation occur?"

"Sometime near the end of January. They'll be in touch," Chris snorted, "…Who am I Ronald? Who the hell am I? What gives me the right to change history? Killing a man with whom I have no business. A man I don't even know!"

Ronald thought for a moment and cleared his throat. "Well, it seems to me this act doesn't make you the killer. It only makes you the hand."

"What's the difference?"

"You're doing a job. Murder is personal."

"Have you ever killed anyone, Ronald?"

"Well…no. But if I must someday, I won't allow it to weigh down my conscience, because I have faith in what we do. The work must always come before personal qualms over morals. "

"That's all about perspective. I killed a man in the Korean War when I was nineteen years old. I killed more than one, of course, but I'll never forget the first. Bullet to the head at less than ten yards. They teach you to detach yourself from making it personal, but I wept in the bunker that night, because the enormity of the whole thing hit me. I thought about the life I had stolen from a man I didn't even hate…I had sworn to myself long before that I would never become the cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch my father was. But I _had_ become him…When I stepped outside the tent for a smoke to clear my head, my superior officer followed me. I confessed the guilt I felt, and you know what he told me? He said I hadn't killed anyone—I had saved someone who would've been killed by that guy tomorrow. And that's how I got myself through the rest of the war. Deny everything…But this assassination? My excuse doesn't hold. It _is _personal; I know what I'm destroying."

"Chris, I think you need to stop obsessing over everything. No more analysis of right and wrong. Be glad they like you enough to give you this one. Do your job."

"At the expense of what?"

--

"Teena? Hello?"

The first few wooden steps creaked beneath his feet, and she could clearly hear his palm brushing the evergreen garland on the banister.

"Are you in the shower, honey?"

Teena squeezed the air out of her lungs and forced her dry throat to emit sound, because she knew that remaining silent would surely bring him upstairs to investigate.

"I'm preparing to get in the bath," Teena called back, praying her voice didn't sound as shaky as she felt.

"Okay, well I haven't had dinner, so I'll just be in the kitchen picking at leftovers. Be up in a few minutes."

"All right. There's a casserole in the fridge!"

The chandelier in the foyer bathed the hallway in a yellow glow and his footsteps soon descended and faded through the dining room into the kitchen. In a wild rush of panic, Teena organized the papers with trembling fingers and shoved them back into the top drawer of the filing cabinet. She looked about frantically to see if she had disturbed anything else, and finding everything back in proper order, she switched the lamp off and quietly pulled the door closed. After removing the key from her pocket, she swiftly locked the door and bent down to examine the broken floorboard with her fingertips. Briefly she glanced at the tarnished skeleton key nestled in her palm and then back again to the splintered hole in the floor. Instead of returning the key to its prison, she dropped it into her pocket and carefully slid the wooden plank back into place. On her way to the washroom, she buried the key under the false bottom in her vanity table beside her Star of David necklace.

--

Her heart continued to patter anxiously while she soaked in the porcelain claw-footed tub. Suddenly the bedroom door swung open; and she braced herself for him to enter the washroom, but instead she heard him rustling through his chest of drawers. He seemed like a stranger to her, more so now than ever. First the document about—of all things—flying saucers, which she had heard him dismiss as "complete garbage" on multiple occasions, and then his own notes…something about a vaccine? Surely he wasn't some kind of scientist—no he couldn't be, she would have known that, he was just some sort of government agent and that was all. Maybe it was part of his work to dispel myths surrounding science-related phenomena. She drew a deep breath and relaxed a bit at that thought. No, there _was _something else. The last line of his handwritten notes had disturbed her more than anything else she discovered. "_Ruse in place to earn their trust_." Teena couldn't help but wonder if she was part of "them".

A knock on the washroom door fractured her thoughts. "Honey, are you almost finished in there?"

"Yes darling, I'll be right out," she replied flatly.

After she had dried off and slipped into a silk chemise, she stepped into the darkened master bedroom. Bill rested on his side facing the opposite wall, and waves of panic rose in her chest once more. What if he somehow knew what she had done? He flipped over when the door closed, smiling as he pulled the covers back for her. She tentatively stepped into the four-poster bed and tried not to tense as he slipped behind her and enveloped her body with his heat. A shiver ran down her spine when his hot breath shuddered against the back of her neck.

"I hope you won't mind darling, but I invited someone to share our Christmas Eve dinner."

"That's fine," she replied, "Who?"

"Chris Spender. You remember him; he was the one moping around the back porch at the party."

"Oh yes…I remember."

"He doesn't have any family to see during the holidays, so I think he'll enjoy a nice Christmas here with us…Out of curiosity, what _were_ the two of you talking about that night? You seemed deep in some conversation."

"Oh no, it was only small talk. I don't even remember what about. He offered his lighter and his coat. He seemed very polite."

"Chris is well-mannered, just a bit stand-offish when you first meet him."

Teena "mmm-hmmd" softly, not wishing to discuss Chris any further with Bill. She almost felt guilty, as though there was something to hide, but of course that notion was ridiculous. They had done nothing wrong. Bill's palm caressed her side and gradually trailed to the swell of her hips in languid circles, bunching the layers of the silk dressing gown around her waist until he touched bare flesh. Both of his arms lightly turned her to face him, and she found herself resisting. It was a husband's right to expect intimacy, but that was not the way she needed to close their distance. Whatever happened to conversation? Another argument similar to the one last week would be preferable to this polite discussion and obligatory love-making.

"Teena? Are you upset about something? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm fine," she answered curtly as she sat up and pulled the gown over her head. She was glad he couldn't see her face in the dark; otherwise he would surely see the tears welling in her glassy eyes. He seemed satisfied with her response and continued his possession of her body.

--

Her eyes glazed over, staring absently past his shoulder while he moved above her and within her, and _his _face came into her mind. Soulful hazel eyes sparkling green, rugged yet gentle features, full lips. What would it feel like to caress that mouth with her lips, to taste the hot flesh of his neck, to wrap her legs around his lean frame, to hold him until dawn with drying sweat sticking to their bodies like dew? What would it be like to share this secret part of herself with someone who understood her—someone who loved her without ever having to say the words. Lovehad become such a shadowy concept. She told Bill she loved him frequently because she was his wife and it was her duty to love him. Her life was pleasant enough, maybe it wasn't a fairy-tale, but it was comfortable. Teena wanted the fairy-tale. Deep in her mind's eye, she felt Chris's moist breath puffing erratically against the pulse at her neck before his strangled cry, and she was with him.

"I love you love love you….." she chanted airily as white sparks hazed over her vision. But when everything faded to black, all she could hear was Bill's voice.

"I know, honey. I love you, too."

--

"I must thank you both again for the invitation. This looks delicious," Chris said with an awkward, forced smile.

A hunk of glazed turkey lounged on his china plate enticingly, and he poked at it with a knife and fork, glad to have something to occupy his hands. For years, he'd managed to avoid celebrating this holiday. He was probably one of the few lonely Americans who didn't contemplate suicide during theChristmas season. Oh, the pleasures of misanthropicism. Bill was not his closest friend, and accepting this sort of invitation was out of character for Chris. Truthfully his motivations hovered around the irrational desire to see Teena again, at least more so than attending a seasonal gathering at the home of a colleague. Conversation had remained sparse and suffocatingly polite since he'd arrived an hour before, Bill instigating much of the stifled banter. Teena had scarcely said a word more than necessary.

He felt his pulse thudding in his ears each time his gaze accidentally fell upon her, causing his breath to catch in his throat. She looked something more than beautiful that night. The velvet gown she wore shone a deep forest green with a scooping neckline that revealed the soft curves at the top of her breasts. Her hair was loosely pulled back with a pearl comb, soft chestnut curls spilling to her neck. In the light of the candles atop the dinner table, her rich, dark eyes sparkled with a hint of gold. Chris silently assured himself this attraction would pass—she would eventually fade and flicker in his memory just like the few others before her that had, for whatever reason, truly captivated him. If anything, this dinner was simply a harmless way of distracting him from the solemn, tumultuous weeks he knew January would bring. And nothing more.

"Where are you from, Mr. Spender?"

He startled at the sound of her voice and looked up from the fascinating dead bird on his plate to see her regarding him curiously with one eyebrow raised.

"Please call me Chris. I'm from Louisiana originally; Baton Rouge and New Orleans," he replied.

"I've always wanted to visit Louisiana. It seems so gothic and romantic. Do you have relatives there?"

"Teena," Bill jumped in quickly, "Let's not pester our guest with so many questions."

"I don't mind, Bill," Chris said, "I never had brothers or sisters, and as far as I know, my parents didn't have any siblings. Both of them passed away when I was very young, and I don't have many memories of them. So no, I don't have relatives in Louisiana."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, tilting her chin down to the table.

"Don't be. I managed to have a descent childhood. I traveled around a great deal, living in several different states with foster parents and such...What about you? Where are you from originally?"

Before she could respond, Bill cleared his throat from his position at the head of the table and addressed Chris. "Teena and I just purchased a summer home in Quonochontaug. It's gorgeous up there and the water-skiing is wonderful. We're having a party for the 4th of July with a cook-out and fireworks, aren't we, darling?"

Teena nodded absently, her eyes far away as one of her fingers twirled a long tendril of dark hair.

"I hope you'll join us, Chris," Bill continued.

"I would like that very much," he answered, studying Teena until she raised her gaze to meet his.

--

When he was a small child, probably only four or five, he believed ardently that Santa Clause existed. He was in between foster homes during that time and living in a small, Catholic orphanage in Chicago. On Christmas Eve, he asked Sister Helen if Santa would come to see him, since Santa loves all children, and she answered him honestly that Santa doesn't visit poor kids. Refusing to accept her response, later that night, he managed to crawl out of the fire escape to the roof and gazed at the star-gilded winter sky in preparation for the appearance of the sleigh and reindeer. He desperately wanted to yell and scream for Santa's attention and demand why orphans weren't worth the effort. Shivering in the gloomy darkness, he fell asleep waiting for the tinkling of bells. That was the night he became a deist.

Hastily he shoved the suit he'd worn that evening into the small duffle bag along with his toiletries and wallet. After flicking the chrome lighter on top of the pile, he changed his mind and shoved it in his pocket; God, he was dying for a cigarette. He couldn't believe he'd ever agreed to stay the night. In one of the large guest bedrooms down the hall from the master, he felt impossibly awkward and out of place. Anxiety attacks had left him in peace for years, but now, in this strange house, he felt the familiar confused panic welling up in his chest like tears. Maybe it was this stupid holiday that didn't belong to him, or maybe it was seeing Teena—it had been a long time since his emotions were stirred like this, and in addition to the stress he felt over his upcoming mission—He had to get away. A note would do just fine—he would leave a letter thanking the Mulders again for their hospitality and explain that he had business to attend to and didn't want to invade their private holiday. Simple enough.

Without a sound, save for the occasional creak of a floorboard, he descended the staircase and circled toward the kitchen. Discovering a convenient pad of paper on the fridge, he quickly scrawled out a succinct message and left the note on the kitchen table. Upon returning to the darkened, ghostly foyer, he clicked the brass lock on the heavy front door and swished the chain aside, inhaling deeply as the frigid air cleansed his lungs.

"Chris?"

At first, he swore he'd imagined the whisper of her sweet alto, but when he glanced over his shoulder, there she stood. She wore a floor-length pale yellow robe, the shape of her legs clearly visible through the sheer silk. In that frozen moment, she seemed more of an apparition than a person, with streams of silver moonlight trickling in from the open door glowing in her face and hair. Chris blinked, wondering if he really might be crazy, but she was still there when he opened his eyes, studying him enigmatically.

"Where are you going in the middle of the night?" she asked softly.

"I was—I just, I have some business to take care of. Something came up and I need to leave early. Forgive me. Thank you for your hospitality, but I really must go."

He turned to leave before his less reasonable half persuaded him otherwise, but before he could fully open the door, he felt the gentle tug of her fingers on his sleeve.

"That isn't true, is it?"

She was so close, closer than she'd ever been. He could smell her.

"I'm sorry, but I must go now," he firmly declared, refusing to look into her eyes.

"Go before dawn if you must, but before you leave…Take tea with me. I can't sleep."

"All right. I can stay for tea."

--


	4. Chapter 4

The soothing fragrance of a peppermint stick rose in a light mist from the warm mug cradled in his hand. He sat stiffly on the high-backed Victorian sofa in the parlor while Teena perched on the piano bench across the room. She'd lit two pine incense taper candles on the baby grand, their flicker skittering over the walls to cloak the room in animated shadows.

"What keeps you from sleep tonight?" he asked, silently wishing she would soon return to bed and leave his escape route empty. She hesitated, as if mulling over which explanation he was allowed to hear.

"Sometimes I have these dreams…and then I wake up and the visions from sleep remain as though the dream never ended. I almost wonder if—never mind," she sipped from her mug and gazed solemnly out the bay window.

"Nightmares?"

"Not always. Not tonight…Bill attributes it to my active imagination. It's probably nothing."

"Don't dismiss it so easily. You're unable to sleep; it concerns you enough to share it with me now. Trust me, in my experience…it's never nothing. Dreams are answers to questions we do not yet know how to ask. They're secrets from a place deep in our consciousness where we keep our fears and truths." He pushed the memories aside as they welled up from within. The post-traumatic stress he'd endured in earlier years had caused him night terrors and endless struggles with anxiety and guilt, but he always kept it to himself. Chris wasn't one to display the chinks in his armor.

"In these dreams, I just imagine things. This house…" She glanced over the room and absently waved one hand as if to somehow clarify her point.

"The house?" He moved his arm through the air to continue her gesture questioningly.

"You're going to think I'm crazy. I haven't told anyone." A hint of tears strained and tightened her voice. She frowned, pursing her lips uncertainly. "There is something in this house, especially at night—it's like some tangible curtain I can slip through when I enter in and out of sleep. Echoes from the past. Ghosts. I can hear them."

"What do they say?"

"Nothing to me. It's like I'm flipping through a picture book, observing frozen moments in time. I think there is a boy—or I imagine there is. Sometimes he is quite young…but I believe he died in this house when he was very old."

"Have you thought about searching in the hall of records to see who lived in the house before? I'm sure you could find him and learn what keeps him here."

"Wait—You believe me?"

"Of course I believe you. Why wouldn't the spirit stay close to life, as opposed to traveling to another realm or being reborn? It's more natural for one to cling to what seems familiar. I know I've felt things in my life that—Well, everyone believes in ghosts, don't they?"

"I would say most people _don't_ believe. Not Bill, at least. But anyway, I'd rather not know who they are. I keep a journal and every day imagine what sort of people lived and died here—I write their stories."

"Maybe that's the reason they speak to you."

"Perhaps. It does frighten me sometimes, though. I have to invent countless excuses to explain to Bill what I'm doing or what's bothering me."

"What would happen if you told him the truth?"

"I don't know. He would just laugh, I suppose, but that's what I can't stand."

"Why do you let him control you so, Teena?"

She twisted her wedding band in circles on her finger in contemplation. "Because he means well. I know he loves me—he supports me, gives me a comfortable life. What more could I ask for?"

"How about respect?"

She laughed softly. "It seems odd to be having this discussion with someone who is a close friend of his."

Teena was right, of course. Chris fidgeted uncomfortably, wishing he had never paused at the damn door. "Bill and I—we've known one another for a long time, but to be honest, I don't have close friends."

"Ten years _is_ a long time. Surely you know him better than I. What's he like?"

He had to stop himself from his natural response of "Why in the hell would you marry someone you don't know?" and instead replied simply, "He's a good man."

She sighed, pretending to busy herself with retying the loose bun at the nape of her neck. "Of course, I'd forgotten. You work together; I should have learned by now not to expect anything less cryptic."

"When we first spoke, you told me you were unhappy," he said quietly.

"I don't think I said that."

"You're sad because you can't fit in at parties, you're bored with your life, and you wish you really knew your husband and that he really knew you. Am I right?"

"It doesn't matter what I said then. I think I'm more afraid than sad, anyway."

Chris tensed, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Bill wouldn't hurt her. He knew him well enough to know that much. When his only response was to stare at her intently, she stuttered to find an answer to his unspoken question.

"I'm afraid of losing who I was before. Before Bill, I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to live on the stage in New York. Isn't that silly?"

"No. It isn't silly at all. Don't lose that part of you. You're young; you can still pursue it…I think you would be a sensational actress. You have a gift, Teena. You can see people, tap into human emotion." He felt a lump hardening in his throat, wishing he could find the right words.

"But you hardly know me."

"Maybe I do," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

She surprised him then. Lemon silk billowed and flowed around her ethereally as her soft figure glided across the room to join him on the sofa. Leaning close to him, she intently studied the emotion behind his eyes, searching for some answer he didn't want her to find. His glance fell to her lips, swollen and pink and soft. Desperately he longed to know what it would feel like to touch her there.

"What do you see?" she whispered.

"I see a poet, an old soul, beauty beyond reach."

Her dark eyes softened, and she knitted her brows as she seemed to memorize the details of his features. "I see softness and gentleness. I see someone who wishes to change but is afraid. I see a seeker of truth," she replied softly.

She held a power over him, and it was unnerving. He turned away from her, summoning the courage to ask the question he needed to know.

"Do you love him?" his voice was barely audible.

"I don't know." She seemed to realize how close they were, and at the mention of Bill, instinctively pulled away.

"I know he's controlling…he doesn't hurt you, does he?"

"What? Of course not! How could you think such a thing?" She stiffened and stood tocross the length of the room.

Chris felt the heat of embarrassment flushing his cheeks, knowing that he had crossed that magic line a long time ago. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive my rudeness. I wasn't thinking. It's past time that I take my leave. Thank you again for inviting me into your home, ma'am—and thanks for the tea. Have a pleasant holiday."

As the front door fell shut behind him, he thought he heard a stifled sob but couldn't be sure. Chris didn't look back.

--

_He stands before the antique mirror in the hallway, wondering if he looks the part of the classic, brave soldier like his namesake, the Swamp Fox. The woolen navy blue uniform itches uncomfortably, the bayonet hangs awkwardly at his side, and the shiny black boots are too tight. He brushes his palm over his full beard—the first he has ever grown. In the quiet of a pink-orange dawn outside the window, his cinnamon brown gelding waits patiently. Wistfully, he gazes past the line of trees to the grassy clearing where his mother rests. She would never recognize him._

Teena immediately stilled her pen when Bill came bustling into the parlor. He dropped the duffle bag and two suitcases in a heap at the entrance to the foyer and paused to catch his breath and swipe a trickle of sweat from his brow.

"Well, that's everything," he said, hands on his hips.

"You're leaving?" she asked, closing the journal and placing it on the floor beside the piano.

"What are you writing about now?" he inquired, curiously noting the pen in her hand.

"Oh nothing, just my own ramblings," she replied lightly.

"I hope you aren't writing about how happy you are that I am going away for six weeks."

"Of course not, I will miss you. I just wish you were finished with your service to the army. It has already taken so many years of your life."

"Well, I am finished for the most part. They just want me back for a bit to train other officers. This is the last time I'll be away from you for so long, I promise."

He held out his hand for her, and she stood to embrace him firmly. His palm smoothed her hair back from her face, and he lightly fluttered kisses over her temples and forehead.

"I wish you would let me drive you to the airport," she murmured into the nape of his neck.

"That's sweet of you, but the DC flight tends to be delayed, especially during this time of year. There's no sense in you having to wait."

"All right. I suppose this is goodbye then."

"I'll call or write as often as I can, honey."

He gave her a last peck on the lips before gathering his luggage and hurrying out the door. Teena waited until the Cadillac's taillights disappeared at the bend of the gravel drive before running for her shoes and coat.

--

Frozen rain splattered across the windshield of the old Ford pick-up. Teena shivered and pulled the collar of her suede coat up around her neck, wishing she could switch on the ignition for the heat. This wasn't her car—it would've been too obvious had he seen the red Chevy in his mirror. The pick-up had belonged to William Mulder Sr., and after his vision had failed to the point that he was no longer able to drive, the car was left abandoned in the field beside Bill's tool shed.

He continued to loiter in the parked car. Teena felt her pulse thudding in her ears, wondering if he'd seen her. How would she ever explain this? And what did she expect to find? He would probably board the red-eye to Dulles and continue to North Carolina tomorrow, just as he'd told her. But she no longer trusted his word. His shadow moved behind the fogged glass of the Cadillac, and the door quickly opened and slammed shut after he pulled his bags from the passenger side. Without a sound, Teena slipped out of the truck and remained twenty feet behind as she followed him across wet pavement toward the main terminal at MVA.

The crowd of travelers inside was thick enough that she easily blended into a sea of nondescript faces. He waited in line to check his bags, moved through security, and weaved through the other passengers to the gate for a red-eye bound for New York's LaGuardia International; and all the while, she watched him from the shadows.

--

Chris turned the small, silver weapon over in his palm. He brandished it, testing its weight, before pushing the button to reveal a pencil-thin blade that protracted with a sudden swish. The man that had given it to him nodded curtly, signifying that Chris had the right idea. His large physical stature and severe facial features were enough to intimidate anyone, but Chris found the ice blue eyes more disturbing and fearsome than any other aspect of him; they were blank, lifeless, and something else clearly watched from the other side. "We entrust this weapon to you, Mr. Spender. You are the one that will not fail the project," Frank had said earlier, before the mysterious stranger had entered the room with a "gift" for the allies.

During secret parlays such as these, the Syndicate would consort with Them—the Others, as they were often simply and unoriginally referred to. It was part of the master plan: work with Them to work against Them. Sleep with the enemy. The game was dangerous, and Chris dreaded the familiar tingling down his spine that surfaced during their presence. If They ever discovered the truth, mankind's existence would be over—quite a lot of pressure for the shoulders of twelve men who just happened to be a little quicker, a little quieter, a little smarter, and a little more willing to lie or kill than the rest of human life currently wandering the planet. For good or ill, this duty had found Chris. He retracted the blade, dropped it in his coat pocket, and decided to feel privileged at the "honor".

After the consortium, the men began to move out and mull across the street for cocktails. Chris followed the crowd until he heard someone calling his name, asking him to hold back. Bill Mulder nodded, hurrying to meet Chris before he'd finished descending the stairs, and the two men stepped off into a darkened side hallway near the landing.

"What is it, Bill?" Chris responded with temerity, prepared to defend himself for the late night conversation with Teena.

"I told my wife I was heading straight for the base tonight and that she needn't accompany me to the airport. She followed me all the way to MVA in my father's truck with the lights off, and then trailed after me through the terminal. She knows I boarded a plane for New York."

"Why would she follow you?"

"I don't know. Fuck!" Bill rubbed a hand over his mouth, looking away, and shifted his weight between feet. "She's been acting strangely for awhile like she suspects something. I don't think the project would ever be endangered because of _her_, but I'm afraid she knows more than she needs. I don't know exactly how long this has been going on—her conducting her own investigation into my life. And now that I'll be gone for several weeks, there's no telling what she'll try. Chris, you are the only one I trust. Can I ask you to do something for me?"

"Of course," Chris replied hesitantly.

"I know you'll be in the New York area before your mission. Would you—could you check in on her for me? Maybe drop by the house for a visit, but don't call first. Make sure she's there, see what she's up to, ease her concerns about me and our work, watch over her closely, and make sure she doesn't try anything. She trusts you, I think. Well, I suppose you're the only one of my colleagues she knows. It could work, help get her off my back."

"I'm always happy to help, Mulder."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note: Warning—the next couple of chapters will have consensual, non-explicit, sexual content. It's pretty tame, but I though I'd give a heads up. **_

--

The dusting of snow blanketing the sand crunched under her boots. The last lingering of the storm had finally drifted out to sea, leaving the land covered in a sheet of powdered sugar in its wake. Strong, frothy waves cut sharply through grey water as the gulls cried overhead; and the icy Atlantic breeze swept strands of chestnut hair across her forehead and into her eyes. Even in the heart of winter, this was her favorite spot to watch and think. It was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful place she'd seen in all her life, though that didn't say much. Only ten years before, she'd been living in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens with her mother. When she'd needed space to think then, she used to open a window in the kitchen and sit on the ledge overlooking a chain-length fence and a make-shift basketball court. Life had been generous to her, considering how far she'd come since the beginning—since she first met Bill. From a practical standpoint, she couldn't want for anything: she had a husband who loved her, a large house, a seemingly limitless supply of money, and this beach. But the need for truth was gradually wearing her thinner—the need to hear it and the need to speak it, perhaps the latter more than the former.

Reaching into her coat, she softly patted the pocket of her sweater where the skeleton key rested. Part of her yearned to explore the office and read every file and document she could get her hands on, especially after he had lied to her yet again. But at the same time, she didn't want to know. Moving on would be so much simpler if she could just forget and pretend…and besides, she wanted to hear the truth from Bill's mouth, not in some clandestine government document.

And what of the man who spoke as if he knew her? She couldn't remember the last time someone had listened without judgment and asked simple, seemingly unimportant questions, like how she was feeling. He was different somehow. More than anything, Teena longed for a friend, someone who could learn her truths, but she knew she was fooling herself when it came to Chris Spender. He was Bill's friend, not hers, and she would never know the secrets he kept. It was for the best that he had walked out of her life, and she would probably never see him again.

A glance up the coastline revealed a figure slowly moving in her direction. His dark head was bowed forward against the bite of the wind, and his black trench coat billowed behind him. She remained frozen in surprise, wondering what could possibly bring Bill home so early; however, when the man raised his head to reveal warm, hazel eyes, all thoughts of her husband immediately pushed far out of her mind.

"Chris? What are you doing here? Bill will not return for over a month, if you have come to visit him."

She hurried across the snow as he approached and tried her best to conceal her giddiness. Butterflies danced in her belly as he stood before her, but her heart soon sank at his firm, solemn expression.

"Has something happened to him?" she asked in sudden panic, "Are you here to tell me?"

"Oh, no. No—I'm sorry. Bill is fine, as far as I know. We spoke a few days ago."

"Then what business brings you to the Vineyard?

"None. I only came to see you."

"Why?"

"Teena, there is something you need to know. Bill told me you followed him to the airport."

She gasped against the tightness rising in her throat and turned away, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

"It's all right," Chris assured her, "He is just concerned. He told me to visit you here to check up on you and ease your mind."

"Is that what you have come to do?"

He hesitated, chewing his bottom lip before he replied softly, "No."

After a short silence fell between them, Chris cleared his throat and spoke again. "I came here because I _wanted _to see you. And because Bill isn't here..." he breathed out a small, forced laugh and looked out at the fresh storm clouds rolling over the sea. He continued in just above a whisper, "It seems that we only just met, but I—I've missed you. I must leave the country for a dangerous mission in two days, and I want you to be the last person that I see."

The warm tingle returned to swirl through her stomach at the sincerity in his smoky baritone. "I don't understand what it is between us. I've missed you as well. Very much. Can I ask you to stay until you must leave? I am so lonely for a friend."

Chris turned his gaze back to her and smiled broadly, specks of emerald green shining in his eyes.

**--**

Orange flames popped and crackled, their light refracting through the bottle of Merlot to create a rosy hue that danced across the floorboards. Teena sipped daintily from her glass and pressed a palm against the fireplace screen, basking in its gentle heat. Chris carefully set his glass on the mantle while he thumbed through the parlor's floor to ceiling bookcase. He would come across a title he liked, pull it from the shelf, leaf through the pages, smile and nod in fond remembrance, and then return it to its resting place.

"_Titus Andronicus. _Shakespeare's greatest tragedy, don't you agree?" he mused, holding the leather-bound book up for her inspection.

"Some argue it is not a tragedy at all, because the audience cannot choose sides in the struggle for revenge. It lacks a hero. Andronicus seeks to avenge the deaths of his sons and the rape of his daughter, but he murders two of his remaining children in cold blood. They're all hypocrites," Teena replied.

"But there is a fall—Titus plummets from wise nobility into madness while Tamora remains unchanged. Vengeance can have no rightful side; it only creates madness, and thus Titus succeeds as the anti-hero. That is why I love the play. It is truthful in its hypocrisy and cruelty and violence, unlike the sniveling and whining of pitiful Hamlet."

"Perhaps that is true, but I still hate Titus. Aaron is the play's greatest character. If I were an actor, I would play Aaron."

"You would choose to play a man? What about Tamora and Lavinia?"

"Tamora is static; as you said, she's motivated by simple revenge and lust for power. Lavinia is weak and pathetic, her only purpose is to shock the audience—she can't even speak for over half the play because the men overpower her and cut out her tongue. Aaron is Titus' foil: he does not deny his crimes, because he believes that what he does is right. And he sacrifices his life for the love of his infant son, which is something Titus could never do."

Chris continued to flip through the pages, and then knelt to place the open book on Teena's lap. She looked up at him quizzically, and he pointed to the text in response.

"Read me your favorite passage," he said.

Teena silently skimmed over the familiar words and lovingly thumbed through the pages until she came to Act IV, scene 2.

"You read it," she said, "Please. I'm tired of hearing the words in my own voice. Let me hear you become Aaron."

"All right," he replied softly, taking the large book from her and cradling it in one arm. When he read the first line, he laughed quietly in embarrassment, but as he continued, the power and strength rose in his voice

"Now, by the burning tapers of the sky,  
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,  
He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point  
That touches this my first-born son and heir!  
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,  
With all his threatening band of Typhon's brood,  
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,  
Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands.  
Coal-black is better than another hue,  
In that it scorns to bear another hue;  
For all the water in the ocean  
Can never turn the swan's black legs to white,  
Although she lave them hourly in the flood."

He closed the book delicately and gently passed it back to her.

"Beautiful…You are right about him—Aaron. He is not an evil man. Maybe no one cares to get close enough to him to see who he truly is," Chris murmured.

She nodded, set her glass of Merlot on the hearth, and stood to replace the book on the shelf among the other great tragedies.

"So I know you write about your spirits in the house, but what else does your muse create?" he asked, changing the subject.

She shrugged as she sank to her knees to join him at the fire. "I write some poetry, short stories, reflections on my life…many things. What about you, Mr. Spender? Surely you are a writer yourself, considering the passion you possess for literature."

He swallowed the last of his wine and raised his hand to stop her from pouring him another glass. "I write novels, actually. Terrible novels that will never be published."

"I would love to read some of your writings."

He laughed. "That is reassuring. Should I decide to publish my work, I know I will at least have one reader."

"What sort of novels do you write?"

"Mysteries, thrillers; some autobiographical in nature. I keep a journal as well of my musings and horrible stabs at poetry. I promise to let you read something of mine if I can read one of your pieces."

"Agreed," Teena smiled warmly, the buzz from the alcohol creating a pleasant dizziness in her head and a light tingle in her nose. She glanced at her wristwatch and was surprised to see that it was already past midnight. They had been chatting comfortably for hours. She stood shakily, her knees cracking on the way up.

"It's late. We ought to get some sleep. You may take any of the guest bedrooms upstairs. Extra sheets and towels are in the linen closet beside the washroom, and if you need anything, just knock on my door. Good night," she said.

"Wait—" Chris lightly placed his hand on her forearm. "Before we go to bed, let's read a bit of poetry. I find that it helps me sleep more peacefully." He quickly returned to the book shelves, his fingers tracing over rows of cracked spines. "Whitman or Aeschylus?" he asked, holding one book in each hand.

"Aeschylus," she replied easily.

--

He placed a finger on her lips to be rewarded with a soft kiss and an enticing flick of her tongue. His finger easily followed a path down the angle of her chin to the pale silken flesh of her neck, tiny veins beating gently with a quickening pulse beneath her skin. She licked her lips, her throat bobbing with a slow swallow. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black, and her eyelids were heavy with the weight of arousal. She looked at him—into him—like no one had ever done before. Teena's eyes held love, trust, and friendship—precious gifts that no one had ever given him. "Please" her gaze begged, and he soon acquiesced, his fingers traveling to the hollow of her collar bone, through the small valley between her breasts, down the line splitting her rib cage, over the small, firm mound of her navel…

Chris awoke lazily, rubbing his eyes and blinking in confusion. Where was he? Clearly not his apartment as the strange, darkened surroundings soon told him. His head ached dully, probably a result of too much wine. As the dream world gradually fractured away entirely, he finally remembered where he was and couldn't help but smile at the pleasant, wishful dream. With one hand, he fumbled clumsily for the lamp switch on the night stand, and his eyes were soon cruelly assaulted by artificial brightness. He squinted at his watch. 3:59 am. All he wanted was to collapse back against the feather pillow and sink into deep sleep and pleasant dreams, but he knew that he would wake again with a worse headache if he did not get up now for a glass of water.

With great effort, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and meandered across the hall in the general direction of the washroom. He glanced down the opposite end of the hallway to discover the door of the master bedroom ajar. Against his better judgment, he continued past the washroom quietly until he stood in front of the open door. Peering through the crack, he saw nothing but indistinct shadows. In dream-like slowness, he placed both palms lightly against the smooth oak and silently pushed the door until it creaked wide open. Two large, French windows on the far wall bathed the entire room in the silver glow of winter moonlight. She seemed so small and fragile alone in the middle of the high, four-poster bed. In her sleep, she had kicked the sheets and comforter off the edge of the mattress so that now only her feet were covered. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt terribly guilty. He had no right to be in here—he should leave immediately. But he was frozen, he couldn't leave.

A white, silk nightgown wrapped her creamy skin like a Greek goddess. One strap had slipped from her shoulder, and the loose fabric at the bottom of the gown was bunched around her thighs, revealing long, shapely legs. She shivered in her sleep, her bare skin covered in gooseflesh. As Chris stood above her, his eyes traveled the length of her body; from the dark brown ringlets spilling over the pillow, to her long eyelashes and baby pink mouth, to the swells and curves of her body. Her chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths, and he realized that the outline of her breasts were clearly visible under the sheer fabric. Chris couldn't breathe, and he was afraid to move. Finally he managed to shake some sense into his head and retrieved the discarded blankets from the floor. Delicately he covered her body with the sheets and heavy wool comforter until her shivering ceased. He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before silently leaving the room and pulling the door shut behind him.

--

Chris sighed contently, his belly pleasantly full of a large dinner of eggplant parmesan. The Riesling dessert wine left a sugary taste lingering on his lips. He gazed at Teena as she stood at the bay window in her long cherry-red dress and white sweater. She pressed her hands to the glass, watching the rose-colored sun sink behind heavy grey clouds as snow flurries danced through the air. The day had been languid and glorious. This level of sloth must be a crime, but it had come and gone far too quickly. They had slept until late morning, enjoyed a brunch of eggs and pancakes, and spent the afternoon reading and chatting beside the fire. They'd even ventured outside for a walk on the beach, but the biting chill in the air soon sent them back indoors. And now, lounging after dinner, they'd been comfortably silent in shared contemplation.

"Teena?" Chris asked.

She turned her head over her shoulder and smiled expectantly. "Yes?"

"I've noticed that you wear a silver chain, but you always hide the charm under your blouse. What is it?"

She dropped her chin to stare at the Oriental rug below her feet, her cheeks deepening to a rosy hue. "It's—it's private," she replied. "Something my mother gave me a long time ago."

"May I see it?"

Teena shook her head "no" and refused to look at him.

"Please? If it is too personal to share I'll understand, but you know I wouldn't judge you for any reason, if that is what you're afraid of."

She sighed softly and padded across the room in nylon-stockinged feet to perch on the edge of the sofa beside him. Her right hand slipped just below her collar and she removed a tiny Jewish star, letting it rest on the outside of her sweater. Chris brushed his thumb over the amulet reverently and said, "It's beautiful Teena. You shouldn't hide it."

"There are things about me Bill doesn't know, and I find it best to keep it that way. Besides, in the social circles he inhabits, this sort of thing is shunned, is it not?"

"No. Not by me. What are you hiding, Teena?"

"Nothing, really. I was raised Jewish, that's all. It's just a connection with my family."

"Where is your family?"

"Dead," she whispered, glancing away.

"I'm sorry," he replied quietly, reaching to stroke her cheek. "What happened to them?"

"My father was killed in an accident, and my mother became ill. She passed away eight years ago. There was no one else."

"What was your life like? Where did you live as a child?" he asked.

She stood quickly, jerking away from his caress. "Why are you asking me these questions?" she demanded defensively.

"Because I want to know you."

"What do you want to know? That my father was never married to my mother? That he was killed working in a mill before I was born? That I grew up in a poor Jewish neighborhood in Queens? That I'm not really 'in society'? Is that what you want to hear?" she asked as she turned away from him and once again gazed out the window.

"Yes," he murmured. "I want you to trust me. I want you to share those things with me. I want to understand your pain and your sorrows and your dreams. None of that changes who you are. It could never change…how I feel about you."

"I met Bill when he came into the Manhattan restaurant where I waited tables. He told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. I was so flattered that this wealthy businessman would stop to look at me. At first, I thought he just wanted me for a good time or as a 'play thing'. But he fell in love with me, in his own way, and he wanted to be with me. And then I changed. I became more conscious of the way I spoke, training myself away from the accent, and I gave close attention to fashion. I wanted to be what he wanted me to be."

"And what about who you are? Does he know you at all?"

"No," she breathed.

"He's an idiot if he can't see what I see. He doesn't deserve you."

Without offering a reply, Teena crossed to the opposite corner of the room and selected a record from the rack. Soft static filled the silence as she placed the needle on the vinyl; and soon the luscious, velvety smooth blues of Billie Holiday's "They Can't Take That Away From Me" warmed the atmosphere. She returned to where Chris sat, extending one arm to him. Tears glittered in her chocolate brown eyes, one spilling over her cheek and leaving a shiny trail behind.

"Dance with me," she said.

"Teena, I can't."

"Everyone can slow dance. Please. Dance with me."

Of course he could never refuse her. He rose on slightly wobbly legs and easily melted into the softness of her body. At first he tried to keep as much distance as he could, but his arms soon held her snuggly around her waist as her arms wrapped around his neck, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. They rocked and swayed gently to the music without thinking, forgetting the world outside their embrace. Teena pulled away just enough to look into his eyes, and he was sure that she was going to say that this was a mistake after all, that they shouldn't be doing this. But she shocked the hell out of him instead. Her hands cupped his cheeks and she lightly pulled him closer, brushing her lips across his, sending sparks of electricity down his spine to pool in his lower back. The dam of control slipped, and he pulled her against him so that her breasts pressed into his chest, his pelvis into her lower belly. Her lips caressed his fluidly without breaking the soothing motion, and he let her control the blissful contact. Without hesitation, her mouth opened under his, and their tongues danced. She tasted mild like vanilla yet fruity like wine and her lips were soft and delicate like the petals of a lilac.

Their movements grew more frantic and confident, and before Chris' mind registered what was happening, she pulled him to the sofa, flung her sweater to the floor, and his fingers began clumsily working the gold buttons on her dress. His body easily covered hers; she raised and parted her legs, her knees resting on the outside of his hips. Lips followed fingers, touching, exploring, caressing. Before long his white starched button-down shirt joined the pile of clothes atop the crinoline layers of her crimson gown. His hand smoothed over her shoulder and down the curve of her back to the hook and eyes of her bra. He buried his face in her neck and tasted the soft flesh there as she fumbled with his belt buckle.

"Wait," he breathed, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she whispered in his ear.

"I—I don't…have…anything."

"S'okay. I can't have children."

"What do you…how do you know?"

"Shhhh. It's okay. I know."

She rolled over his body until she straddled his thighs and bent to trail her lips down the lean muscles of his torso. All doubts were soon erased from his mind.

--

_**A/N: I'm editing this for mature content as I'm posting due to the rating and the rules of this site. However, I will eventually post the original copy of the story on my live-journal and provide a link, if anyone's interested.**_


	6. Chapter 6

Splashes of dawn seeped through the heavy snow clouds, signaling the promise of a clear afternoon sky and a warmer day. Chris squeezed his eyes tightly against the light that poured in through the bay window, and he blinked to free himself from the drowsy haze. His lower back ached due to an awkward sleeping position, and sharp needles pricked his foot as he shook it awake. A warm, pleasant heat covered his body like a blanket, and as he broke the surface of consciousness, he realized that his discomfort emanated from being stretched out on the stiff antique sofa with Teena draped over him. She slept deeply with soft and even inhales and exhales against his neck, and her long, dark hair fanned across his shoulder, spilling over the edge of the sofa. She was completely nude. And so was he. The beating of his heart quickened, and he struggled to take enough air into his lungs as he braced himself for a panic attack. He tried to talk himself through it, told himself to breathe, that he had control over this—that it was all right. But the internal voice threatening to pull him over the edge repeated "What were you thinking?" again and again. Everything was changed.

Carefully he rolled out from beneath her, leaving her resting on her belly. She shifted in her sleep and turned over to her side, her body on display as if to taunt him. Clumsily he dug through the pile of clothes on the floor and hurriedly slipped on his briefs and slacks. He struggled with the buttons on his shirt as he stumbled into the kitchen. After locating a notepad and pen, he poised his shaking hand over the paper to scrawl out a brief message, but he found that he was unable to piece a coherent thought together. Should he quote some poet? That was always the easiest—just bastardize someone else's thoughts. No, damn it, that wouldn't do. He shook his head and simply began writing, hoping ideas would come as he went along.

_Teena, I'm sorry to leave like this, but I think it's for the best_

No, no that wasn't right. He crumpled the piece of paper, tossed it into the waste basket, and tore another leaflet from the pad.

_Teena, I cannot say that I did not enjoy last night. I wish I could stay. I do not know how to say goodbye. I'm sorry. My love,_

_Chris_

Chris breezed over the message quickly and furrowed his brow in disapproval. He crossed out "My love", and then nodded in satisfaction. On his way out, he left the note on the old radio in the foyer and did not glance into the parlor before quietly shutting the door.

**--**

_After this beautiful summer afternoon he will never wear the uniform again. He glances at his reflection in the mirror, brushes his fingers over the jagged pink scar below his hairline, and understands that he will never be the same. Laughter of guests drifts through the open window into the hallway. His heart patters nervously as she emerges from the powder room. She has been his dearest companion for most of his life, but only in the past year has he come to realize how beautiful she is. Today in her white hoop skirt and long veil with strawberry blonde_ _locks falling below her shoulders, she is lovelier than he could have imagined. She takes his hand in hers. "Are you ready, Fox?" she whispers. His mother would be proud._

It was so easy to get lost in someone else's story as a means of keeping her mind off her own. Writing was an escape, though not one in which she could hide forever. She should feel guilty, but she didn't, and that bothered her immensely. The hurt she felt at his sudden departure was a more powerful sorrow than the knowledge that she had destroyed her marriage. Did it make her a terrible person? No, she decided, it did not. It made her honest. After she read the message over and over, searching for the real words beneath the text, she crumpled the paper and clutched it in her palm.

Of course they could never see each other again. But she was changed; she could never go back to life before him, and she could never forget. Sitting in this room was driving her mad. She could still smell him here. It was a bizarre cross of two worlds; this was Bill's home—the parlor was his favorite place, despite the fact that he cared nothing for the library. He always said the room had the best view of the yard. The first time she'd seen it, she'd sucked in her breath at its beauty. At that time she'd been twenty-one years old and a different person. Now this place held new memories; in this room, she'd been with a man that was not her husband, a man she loved more than she loved her husband. This house was driving her mad, and the silence was deafening. It was time to escape. She hurried upstairs to pack a bag.

**--**

Sheets of rain pelted the sodden earth angrily, and Chris felt as though he were actually sinking into the mud. A dense morning fog rose from the jungle in the east like thick steam. The rifle slipped under the surface of the mud as Chris pulled his knees up to his chest, his back against the decaying brick wall. He was glad for the fog and the rain that trickled into his eyes, because he could no longer clearly see the blood-splattered concrete wall across the yard. The body was gone; it had been smuggled away by Katangan and Belgian guards like vultures feeding on road kill. Before the man had breathed his last, he was the most pathetic creature Chris had ever seen. He'd been beaten, starved, humiliated, and then forced to beg for his life. His sallow, empty black eyes, flooded with tears, had pleaded desperately for Chris to find it in his heart to grant one more chance. A noble, strong, invincible leader had been reduced to a frail old man in the span of minutes. Chris looked away from the eyes that would haunt him for years to come, and before he pulled the trigger he heard the man's hoarse cry: "You think you know, but you have no idea." And then he was gone. Chris believed that somehow, the message was meant for him.

At that moment, he needed something real, something tangible. He stood slowly, his back sliding upright against the wall. The rifle still lay imbedded in the sludge at his feet, but he didn't bother to retrieve it. He could leave now. It was over. Mission accomplished for Uncle Sam.

--

Teena sat in the rocking chair with her legs tucked against her chest and shifted her weight back and forth, causing the rockers of the old chair to creak over the floorboards. She had chosen this less than comfortable place to perch because it was the only piece of furniture in the lower level of the house that wasn't taped and covered with a sheet. The room was bitterly cold—the heat hadn't run all winter and now, of course, the system decided to malfunction. Strangely she felt incredibly tired, but so mentally exhausted that she could not think of sleep. And she couldn't write. Ironically the new "summer" home seemed barren and unwelcoming, though Teena didn't know what she'd been expecting. Furnishing was less than half completed and the process of decorating the "quaint cottage" had not yet begun. Bill had called it a cottage. Funny. It did provide some escape at least and a change of scenery. She wasn't _supposed_ to be here, Bill didn't know she was here, and that made her feel better.

Reaching to the floor with her fingertips, she retrieved a dwindling pack of Morley's and the lighter. Her fingers shook as she steadied the cigarette in her mouth, flicked the spark, and inhaled deeply. Smoking had become one of her favorite things, because it was private, her secret. The only person she'd shared it with—No. She'd promised herself to stop obsessing over things she couldn't have, things she couldn't change. Why did everything suddenly feel so helpless—as though she were trapped on a bus with the whole world flying past the windows, hues melting together like sloppy watercolors, leaving her unable touch the outside. Teena knew she could stop if she desired it, if she could force herself to do it. Just because she was Bill's wife now didn't mean she always had to be Bill's wife. People could start over at twenty-five. If only it were that easy.

A light rain pattered against the windows as cracks of thunder approached from the Atlantic in the distance. Clumps of snow and melting ice splattered on the front walk after plummeting from the shingles. There was something forlornly sad about the rains that came to wash the white winter away, leaving nothing but muddy slush. Golden light from the standing lamp began to flicker and fade as the thunder grew closer. When the power died completely, the darkness enveloped Teena softly, and the only light arrived every few seconds when a brilliant white flash of lightening lit the room. She took a drag while she watched the storm creep up on the other side of the window, and when the light returned to illuminate the land, she gasped and quickly stood in fear, the rocking chair clattering sharply as it fell behind her.

Crouching low to the floor, Teena scurried to the kitchen to retrieve a knife, and upon her return to the living room, she found that the figure outside had not moved from its bent position. Slowly it began to amble closer to the house, and Teena raced to the front door to make sure the deadbolt was secured. Her heart jumped into her throat as she peered out the peephole to see the person shuffling toward the stairs. She needed the police, but the phone had yet to be connected. It was up to her to defend herself against the intruder. Whoever it was did not seem to be taking an offensive posture, however, and before the person could reach the door, he crumpled to his knees on the front stoop.

"Who's there?" Teena cried out from inside, "I'm…I'm armed!" she added for some emphasis but received no response.

Hesitantly, she unlocked the door and poked her head outside.

"Who are you? Turn around and explain yourself, or I shall have to call the police! You are trespassing on private property."

Slowly the man turned his head toward her. He was soaked from head to toe, and water trickled from his drenched hair over his face and into his reddened eyes. Her heart stopped in recognition and a lump formed in her throat.

"Oh my God, Chris. What happened to you? Are you all right?"

He shook his head "no" and looked away.

"Come inside. It's okay. I'll help you. You don't have to tell me."

He stood on wobbly legs, and she wrapped an arm around him for support, leading him to the living room before gently easing his weight to the floor. She put her hands on his shoulders as she studied his glazed expression and placed her palm against his forehead.

"You're sick. You have a fever. I'll be right back."

Teena hurried upstairs and grabbed some towels and an old quilt from the linen closet, and then ran back down to the kitchen to dig through her purse for a bottle of aspirin. She heated water on the gas stove before returning to the living room as quickly as possible.

"I don't have any logs for a fire, but maybe some candles would help," she said, removing two tapers from the mantle and placing them on the floor, striking the flames with her lighter. After the kettle sounded in the kitchen, she retrieved a steaming mug and returned with the aspirin, shaking three pills into her palm.

"I'm sorry, I don't have tea or coffee. Swallow these and drink all this water."

He complied numbly and shivered as she began peeling layers of drenched clothing from his skin. When she'd stripped him nude, she was frightened at how pale and clammy he looked. Delicately she wrapped the quilt around his shaking body and began lightly toweling his hair as he sipped tentatively from the mug.

"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.

"How did you know to find me here?" she asked.

"I'm s-ssorry I scared you. You weren't at the house in the Vineyard, so I took the chance that you would come here."

She wrapped her arms around him, giving the warmth of her body, and he curled against her comfortably, his head resting on her breast. Her fingers stroked lightly through his hair, and she bent to kiss the top of his head.

"Teena, I've done a terrible thing."

"What have you done?" she whispered.

"I think, perhaps, that I understand Macbeth."

"What do you mean?"

"I—I killed someone. I killed a man for power…You're afraid of me now, aren't you?"

"No, of course not. I don't care what you've done. Sleep now. Just sleep," she cradled him in her arms as if he were a child, gently rocking their bodies back and forth.

"I love you," he murmured.

--

"Chris, wake up. Wake up now. It's after noon and you should have something to eat."

He blinked tentatively at the sound of her voice and opened his eyes in the sunless daylight that had flooded the room. She smiled softly as he gazed up at her face, and she helped him sit up slowly. He felt surprisingly well and comfortable after sleeping the night on a hardwood floor. A plate of toast with jam, a glass of juice, a banana, and a bowl of oatmeal lay on the floor beside him.

"We didn't have much food in the house. I went to the market this morning after I was sure your fever had passed."

She offered him a piece of toast which he took gratefully. He hadn't realized how famished he'd been until he was given the opportunity to eat. She sat beside him quietly while he finished his meal, and after he devoured everything, she presented him with a casual polo shirt, drawers, and slacks.

"Bill's," she said, "Your clothes are not yet dry."

He thanked her and took the garments hesitantly. She tried to help him stand to button up the slacks, but he waved her off, assuring her that he felt fine. "I need to leave soon," he said.

"Chris…I'm tired of being lied to. You know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about you. Why can't you trust me! You—you come to my house in a physical and emotional wreck in the middle of the night, I care for you without question, and then you, what, just go about your business after I've served my purpose? God, for all that I know, this is some kind of master plan—make me fall in love with you so I can be used and manipulated for who knows what? Damn it, I'm sick of living in the dark!"

Her voice had gradually risen in volume until she was shouting, and she pinned him with an intense glare he knew he deserved. Years of frustration and hurt and anger were finally beginning to surface.

"You love me?" he asked quietly.

"Yes I love you! Despite the fact that I know so little about you and against my better judgment, I love you!"

"But you _do_ know me. You know me better than anyone, but…I will tell you everything else that you want to know," he said, as he motioned for her to sit beside him on the floor, finally ready to trust her completely. "I suppose I'll begin with myself…"

--

He told her of enlisting in the army when he was no more than a child, of going to war and killing boys younger than he, of returning home changed. He told her of his nightmares and anxieties, of his history of manic depression and loose relationships, and of his hatred for the father he'd never known. "My father was a Communist. He was executed for treason. When I was young, I didn't know what I could do with my life; the one thing I knew was that I would be nothing like him, I knew that I would always do what was best for my country…"

Teena listened intently but asked nothing. She simply let him share with her.

"I met Bill in 1951 after I returned from Korea. We were of the same rank, and we were friends then. Later that year, the project recruited us. They were looking for young, intelligent, well-educated men with military experience, and we were hand-selected out of thousands. We didn't even know then…Teena, we don't work for the State Department; we never have. Our group promotes the secret agendas of the government, and we call ourselves The Syndicate."

"What sort of agendas?" she asked, the first words she'd spoken in well over an hour.

"Our primary goal is to conceal the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials from the global public."

She frowned, laughing lightly in disbelief and awaiting for him to admit a ruse. When he did not respond, she said, "You can't be serious! Space men? Like flying saucers? You're saying all of it is real?"

Chris sighed, understanding the outlandish nature of the story, and began with the crash at Roswell and the alien autopsies. He then continued with the bounty hunters, the abductions, the hybridization program known as "Purity Control", and the aid with cloning and genetics experimentation from German and Japanese scientists who had performed unethical research on humans during World War II.

When his story finished, he awaited some response from Teena, but she remained silent, starring at her folded hands in her lap as she leaned back against the wall.

"I guess I understand if you can't believe it. I know it's a lot to take in," he added uncomfortably.

"No…Now everything seems to fit. So you're working with these…aliens. Why?"

"At some point, possibly in the near future, there will be an alien invasion of the planet. Our work with Them is merely a delaying tactic to allow time for us to develop a real defense. We are trying to develop a vaccine against the virus—Their life force that will eventually control us all, what we have come to call Black Oil. Bill's work deals primarily with the creation of this vaccine, whereas I am more of a field operative."

"You're pretending to be on Their side while secretly learning about Them so you can defeat Them?"

"Yes. I don't know how long we can keep it up. Time seems to be running out. But for now, that is the plan."

"What would happen if your group discovered you'd told me all this?"

"I would be killed."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"I've been planning to tell you for awhile, because you're close to this, it doesn't matter how indirectly. There has been recent talk of requiring project members' families to participate in Purity Control as a means of proving allegiance and dedication. You need to be aware of the danger you're in."

"I don't…What am I supposed to do?"

"Teena, we have to break contact forever. If anyone found out, both of our lives would be in danger, especially now, after what you've learned. Return to the Vineyard as soon as possible."

"I can't just go back with everything I now know."

"Live your life, Teena. Let us fight the future. I'm expected in Washington tomorrow, so…I think this has to be goodbye for us. I'll leave an emergency number with you. If you need anything, you can contact me, but do so only if absolutely necessary. Do you have something I can write on?"

She stood to cross the room and crouched under the rocking chair to retrieve a leather-bound book. She flipped to the last page and silently passed it to him.

"My journal," she said.

He took the pen she offered and scribbled out the number, then closed the book reverently.

"There's something I want you to keep," he said.

Chris dug through the pocket of his trench coat, draped over a linen-covered table to dry, and removed a small metallic object. "This is Their weapon—the only device that can kill Them." He pushed the button on the side of the ice-pick like device, and she jumped at the hiss of the protracting blade. "It takes only one stab to the back of the neck. This will protect you against anything. Keep it hidden until you need it." He retracted the blade and handed it to her. She took it hesitantly, examining its weight in her palm before dropping it carefully into her purse and moving close to him to take his hand.

"One more night," she whispered. "Stay with me one more night."

"All right," he murmured, "I'll stay one more night."

--

She wanted this night to be perfect so that she could always remember it, because she knew it was the last time she would ever be with him. Their goodbye was soft and slow and sweet, with time stretching like elastic. A cool breeze blew in from the open door to the balcony, causing the sheer curtains in the bedroom to billow softly. Their bodies tangled in the fresh sheets in a dance of giving and accepting. His lips caressing hers whispered that he loved her, the delicate touch of his hands assured her he would protect her, and the roll of his tongue as he tasted her said he wanted to please her. "I love you" she told him with her lips and teeth and tongue. Pleasure crashed over her in waves, and he followed his own crest close behind. She decided that she wouldn't fall asleep, but the calm relaxation of her body betrayed her, and she drifted into pleasant dreams as she lay cradled in his embrace.

--

When she awoke, he was gone, but she knew he would be. It was probably better this way. Before he'd left, he'd covered her with layers of blankets and shut the door against the chill. She rolled over to see her journal lying open on his pillow, and she couldn't stop her tears as she read.

_Take me with you_

_Take the me I give you_

_To your hiding place_

_I want to hold your secrets_

_Like the stars I almost touch._

_When the lights shine bright_

_As you dance across the stage_

_Remember_

_Know that I am there_

_Watching, listening,_

_Laughing, Sobbing_

_Always_

_I wish I had found you years ago. In so short a time, you have taught me what it means to be alive. Share your voice._

_-C._


	7. Chapter 7

Chris slinked into the side entrance of the Persian nightclub at the Omni Hotel downtown. Before the commencement of the evening's summit schedule, the group had decided to meet at the bar for cocktails. Sticky heat crept and bubbled up his neck from the constrictive collar of his black wool suit as he meandered through crowds of Washington's elite, all of them peeved at having to step aside to let him through. The overpriced tailored suites gave them away—politicians and lawyers and executives who made entire careers out of lies, proudly displaying beautiful trophy wives on their arms while the mistresses waited upstairs.

His breath shortened when he saw the group at a table in the corner, pretending to admire the panoramic view of the Potomac while they secretly discussed other matters. An impulse told him to leave, but he knew he would have to face it eventually—face _him _eventually. In another stall for time, Chris whirled on his heels in the opposite direction to get a martini from the bar. He'd barely finished speaking his order when someone slid into the stool beside him.

"You're late, Chris. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show. Some of the guys said you were still in Africa, or wherever the hell they sent you," Bill toyed with the cherry in his Manhattan while he spoke casually.

"I just got back today, actually," Chris replied cryptically, trying not to make it obvious that he was avoiding eye contact.

"Wow, serious jetlag. You must be having a tough time."

"Yes, I am. Hopefully I'll be back to a normal schedule in a day or two…So, how have you been?"

"Fine, I suppose. You know, the service time is nothing spectacular. I helped with logistics training, basics, and conditioning mostly, a couple of special ops, but nothing major. Glad to have it over with for another year. Aren't you up next time?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Listen," Bill said, lowering his voice and scooting his stool closer to Chris, "Did you have a chance to make it up to the Vineyard like we talked about?"

"I did but only briefly. Teena and I talked a bit over tea, and then I left immediately to begin my mission."

"Well? What did you talk about?"

"I did most of the talking. I fed her a story about you and I having important positions protecting national security, and I said that we can't talk about it, but that we have everyone's safety in mind. I mentioned that sometimes you are unable to tell her specifically where you're going but that she shouldn't worry. And that was about it."

"What did she say?"

"She said she felt better about everything. She'd just been worried about you, since she didn't know where you were or why you would lie."

"So she bought it?"

"She seemed to."

"Good. Thanks, Chris. I'm sure that'll help—her hearing it from someone else…I've missed her. I tried sending letters whenever I could, but she never responded. Maybe she didn't get them, who knows? Anyway, I haven't even had a chance to go home yet, so I'm pretty eager to finish these conferences. Do you think I might be able to get a red eye out tonight?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure what kind of business is on the floor. You'll have to ask Frank."

Bill glanced over his shoulder as the men began to rise from the table, leaving their empty glasses behind.

"Oh, it looks like they're finishing up. I'll catch you later, Chris. Thanks again."

"Sure."

--

"Darling, the pasta is absolutely delicious! What's in it?" Bill exclaimed from across the table.

He enjoyed formal dinners, even when it was just the two of them, so she had prepared a nice meal, brought out the fine china, lit two large candles in their crystal holders, and prepared the master seats at the dining room table for his homecoming.

"Salmon," she replied blandly, sipping on her glass of white wine.

"Why did we bother hiring Laney? You're a much better cook….Why aren't you eating, honey? You're just pushing noodles around your plate. Here I am gorging myself and you're just sitting there like a lady."

"I had a late lunch."

"It feels so good to be home! How about we do something fun this weekend? Let's go ice skating before the spring thaw."

"I think it's too warm for that."

"We'll drive up north, then. Come on, darling, liven up a little. Aren't you happy to have me home again?"

"Of course I'm happy," Teena said, placating him, "We'll go ice skating, if you want."

"Hopefully I'll get some free time soon, and we can start renovating the summer house to have it ready for guests by June. You're going to adore it when it's all finished. We picked the perfect location, I think. The land is beautiful, don't you agree?"

"Yes," she said, though it came out as more of a choke. He raised a brow at her, clearly expecting her to elaborate her opinion; but when she did not, he shrugged and continued, changing the subject.

"So, what projects have kept you busy while I've been away?"

"Nothing much, really. I've been reading and writing in my journal and looking after the garden. And I met some of the ladies in town, so occasionally I drove down for a luncheon or sewing circle. Things like that," she answered hastily.

"That sounds lovely. I'm glad to hear you've made some friends. We should organize a dinner party."

As he cleared his plate, the knot in Teena's stomach began to tighten. After dinner, he would lounge in the parlor for an hour or two to read the paper, maybe turn on the television before excusing himself upstairs to prepare for bed, and then he would slip into the sheets, nude. He would expect to make love tonight, which was understandable, but she desperately needed to avoid that somehow. Inevitably it would have to happen again, of course, but tonight was too soon. Betraying Bill had sadly been easier than she thought it would be, but she couldn't even think of betraying Chris. Not yet. With one hand, she pushed her full plate aside and slowly stood, pushing her chair back from the table.

"I am not feeling very well tonight. I'm sorry, but I think I must go to bed early."

"What's the matter, honey?"

"I'm just tired. I'll feel better tomorrow, I'm sure."

"Well, all right. I'll clean up the kitchen. Are you sure you don't want to sit up for awhile and watch T.V.?"

"I should sleep, Bill."

"Is there anything I can get for you?" he asked, looking dejected.

"No, thank you," she said as she left the room, "Good night."

"Good night. I love you."

--

After only a couple days' respite, he had finally departed again, and somehow she had managed to create enough errands to avoid him while he'd been home. Earlier that evening, she'd gone through all the motions of normalcy: driving him to the airport, kissing him goodbye, telling him to be safe and that she would miss him. He didn't seem to suspect anything, which had brought the ache of guilt into her conscience, making everything worse. It would be so much easier if he would just be rude or cruel, or even neglectful; however, he'd been nothing but sweet to her, always concerned, asking if she felt any better. He did love her; she knew.

"I don't love him," she spoke aloud to the quiet bedroom. It was the first time she'd said it—really admitted it to herself.

This wasn't right. Staying like this, in this marriage, wasn't fair to either of them. Maybe something _would_ come out of the time she'd shared with Chris; he'd helped her see the truth and find the courage to want something more.

"If I don't do it now, I never will," she murmured to no one.

Her hands shook and her heart fluttered anxiously as she contemplated a plan. Pacing around the foot of the bed, she tried to talk it out rationally.

"I will take my clothes and go to a hotel. I'll leave a note and tell him not to stop me. I can file for divorce as early as next week."

She wouldn't allow herself to think of all the impossibilities, since the sheer logistics would surely cause her to change her mind. Where would she go? How could she make a living? How could she do this to Bill? But she reminded herself that it would be better in the end and that his happiness was not worth more than hers. Without further internal debate, she hauled two large suitcases down from the upstairs storage compartment and hastily opened them on the master bed. Running back and forth to her walk-in closet, she threw disorganized, heaping armfuls of clothing into the suitcases.

As she worked brusquely, a light sweat beaded her brow and the lights seemed to grow dimmer in the room. When she stopped, she didn't really stop; everything remained in constant slow-motion, gradually becoming darker around the edges. Her head became fuzzy—the images before her eyes spun lightly, making her body feel weightless. She stumbled forward, trying to move toward the bed so that she wouldn't injure herself when she fell, but her feet carried her into the washroom instead. Sinking to her knees, she gripped the side of the toilet bowl to steady herself. Not until after she'd heard the flush did she realize she'd been sick.

Just as suddenly as the episode grasped hold of her, it dissipated completely, leaving her drained and empty. After splashing water on her face, she stood frozen, studying her wild reflection peering back from the glass above the sink. Her eyes were red and puffy with tired, dark circles giving her a gaunt appearance. She studied her features intently and began to accept the truth—the truth that she couldn't leave, even if she wanted to. Now there was much more at stake. The episodes weren't disappearing, despite how she ignored them. She couldn't deny it any longer.

--

Chris glanced at his watch as he told the cabbie to head toward Greenwich Village. Not even two a.m. He'd paced his Brooklyn loft for what had felt like hours in a sleepless haze, engaging in various debates with his conscience. Taking a short trip to the trashy nightclub across the block to drink himself to sleep had been tempting, though he knew he couldn't do it every night. After all, he'd sworn that he would never be like his father. What it came down to was that he couldn't stand the thought of another man (that being his contemporary and every now and again, friend) with her. The knowledge that he would never wake up beside her, never share a walk down the beach with her, never read a book of dead poets to her, and never feel the brush of her skin against his ever again would not cease tormenting him. If Bill loved and respected her, or at least understood her, it would be different. Watching from afar would be painful, but it wouldn't be impossible. He would force himself to move on and that would be the end of it. She deserved so much more; she deserved to be happy, and Chris knew that _he _would do anything in his power to give her that.

Absently he forked over a sweaty wad of bills to the cabbie and told the man to keep the change, despite the fact that he likely didn't speak a word of English. The newly renovated brownstone stood before him quaintly, and Chris trudged up to the front stoop and pressed the buzzer. No immediate response seemed to be forthcoming, so he laid on the button until he heard a shuffling inside accompanied by a few grumblings of "Hold your horses, goddamn it!" and variations of the like. The door swung open to reveal a rather peeved, bed-headed Ronald wearing long underwear with a button-down pajama shirt and a moth-eaten, tattered robe that probably used to be green but was now sort of puce.

"This better be good, Spender," he said as he stood back to allow Chris to step inside.

"Oh come on, Ronald. Stop pretending I woke you."

"Well it's two in the morning, you certainly could've! Or I might have company over."

"When was the last time a woman was here?"

"That's beside the point. If I _did_ have a girl over, you'd be inconveniencing me severely!"

"I'll keep that in mind for next time. Can I sit? Please?"

Out of feasible chastisements, Ronald sighed and gestured toward the rather barren front sitting room, which included two chairs and several boxes full of junk that apparently couldn't fit anywhere else.

"So is this me playing psychologist again?" Ronald asked as he eased himself into a chair.

"I suppose," Chris said, choosing to walk small circles in front of the window instead of sitting.

"You know there are real doctors for this kind of thing, right?"

"Ron, please."

"Okay, okay. What is it?"

"I'm having an affair."

"Really? So you're actually getting laid; that's a good thing. Maybe I'm the one who needs advice here"

"With Bill Mulder's wife," Chris added in a small voice.

For a moment, Ronald remained silent, glaring at Chris in disbelief.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? How could you do that to Bill? We're like family, brothers—we look after each other!" Ronald exclaimed, quickly rising to his feet.

"It just—it just happened, all right? I didn't want it. I didn't plan it."

"Are you still seeing her?"

"No. We agreed to never see each other again."

"Then what do you want me to tell you?"

"I don't know! I don't know what to do. I feel incredibly guilty for betraying Bill, and yet I can't stand the fact that I'm unable to be with her. I love her, Ronald. She's become everything to me, and now I can't see her again. I didn't choose this. I would give anything to stop feeling this way, but it's impossible."

Ronald retreated and crossed to the opposite side of the room, his arms folded solemnly. "You realize, also, what danger she is now in? A woman who is cherished by two members would provide excellent leverage in the conspiracy."

"I'm aware of that. No one else will ever know."

"What if she confesses to Bill? Did you think of that? He could choose to bring the issue to the floor, and you could be tried for treason for breaking the code. Not to mention, Teena would be punished for her part and likely used as human collateral."

"She won't tell Bill. It's over."

"Does she love you?"

"Yes."

"She'll never stay away from you then. For women, it's all about the romance and the fairytales. This is far from over."

"It _is _over. We agreed on it; we decided together."

"You'll have to make sure. If you really love her, if you care about her well-being, then you need to think of something that will keep her away and save your own ass in the process."

"I just don't know what to do, Ronald."

--

"Yes, I _know _this is a private line and I know it doesn't exist and I don't give a damn! I need to speak with Christopher Spender. You can tell him that it is an urgent matter and that it can't wait," Teena spat in exasperation. She'd been on the line for nearly fifteen minutes convincing some stupid bimbo secretary that she did, in fact, have the right number and that she was well aware of whom she was calling.

"Well," the woman said with great annoyance, "Unfortunately he is in a meeting at the moment and unable to speak with you."

"Do you know when this meeting will be finished?" Teena asked, close to tears from frustration.

"No ma'am, I'm sorry. I will let him know that you have tried to contact him."

"Is he at all interruptible? It's important that I talk to him tonight."

"One moment," the secretary muttered before the line clicked.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, she was relieved to hear his voice on the other end.

"Yes?" he answered tentatively.

"Chris! Oh thank God I finally caught you! I need to talk with you."

"Why?"

"No, not over the phone. Can you meet me tonight?"

"Where?"

"Bill plans to go to Washington after the meeting, and since he won't be home until late tomorrow, I can drive halfway to meet you. There is a motel called the Village Inn on the highway outside of Boston. I'll go now if you can meet me sometime later tonight."

"All right, sir. If that is convenient, I will set up the appointment at that time."

--

Teena leaned against the hood of her red '57 Chevy, parked in the darkness behind the inn. This exchange must be quick, she knew, because they couldn't risk being seen together. She wished they could get a room and have just one more night, but they could never have that much time again. Her pulse pumped forcefully in her temples and she was afraid that she might be sick from the butterflies in her stomach. She tried to breathe slowly through her nervous energy and reminded herself that it was only Chris and that he loved her. But she couldn't help but feel worried at how he might react. Her news wasn't good, but she hoped and prayed that at the very least, he would lend some sort of support and reassurance, providing a voice of reason.

She jumped as a car door slammed unexpectedly behind her and whirled around to see him approaching carefully in his typical dark trench coat and hat. Her heart began to slow as the familiar, comforting warmth of his presence flooded her chest and belly. She longed to throw her arms around him and never let go, to be part of him forever. When he stood before her, his eyes refused to meet hers and his expression was cold and unfamiliar. She frowned worriedly and spoke up when he would not.

"Chris, thank you for coming. I—"

"You can't just call me like that. The secretary could have recognized your voice. How could you be so naïve? We agreed never to see each other again. We talked about this—it's the best thing for both of us."

"I'm sorry," she said weakly, "You told me I could call you if something came up."

"An emergency, Teena. I said to only call in an emergency."

"I'm pregnant."

He took a step back, or wobbled rather, and she saw a flicker of shocked emotion pass over him before the odd, stony expression returned to blanket his visage. In place of a reply, he dug one hand into the pocket of his trench coat, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and his chrome lighter. With one hand cupped over the flame and turning his body against the breeze, he lit up leisurely. After he'd taken the first drag, he leaned against the side of the brick building, crossing one foot over the other. Teena gaped at him as she waited impatiently for some kind of acknowledgement. When his gaze finally drifted back to her, he offered an obviously forced response.

"Are you sure?" he asked evenly.

"Why do men always ask that? Yes, I'm sure, or I wouldn't be telling you," she said, anger covering her distress and worry.

"And you think it's mine?"

"I know it's yours. Bill wasn't there. The date matches exactly."

"You said this couldn't happen."

"Well, obviously I was wrong. Bill is evidently the one with the problem, not me. I didn't—I didn't lie to you, Chris. Please don't think that. I honestly believed I couldn't have children."

"What do you want me to do about it now?" he asked, blowing a puff of smoke in her direction.

Teena looked up in surprise at his retort, and then replied softly, "What do you think I should do?"

"To be honest, I don't much care what you do. It's your body, not mine. I'll pay if you want to get rid of it. Bill will never know." The hollow voice didn't belong to him, and his strange words stung bitterly.

"How can you do this? We conceived a baby out of love. It's me, it's mine. I'm keeping it." Finally she had to succumb to the growing lump in her throat and choked as the tears spilled out, her body wracked with sobs.

"What Teena? What do you expect from me?" he replied innocently, maintaining his distance.

Teena felt her typical hold of control slipping as she began to sink into hysterics. "I expect you to care! Show some emotion or concern…at least have an opinion!"

"Do you want me to sweep you off your feet and carry you into the sunset like some goddamn fairytale? That's a great idea. Let's get married and run away together. I hear Las Vegas has some excellent honeymoon suites. I hope you don't mind Elvis."

"Who are you? Chris, it's me! Please please don't do this to me please. I know this is an act. It isn't real. You wouldn't say these things to me. I _know _you Chris, like no one else remember? Look at me." She raised her palm to stroke his cheek tenderly and tried to find his gaze. "I know you love me."

She gasped as he jerked from her caress roughly, slapping her hand away. Having no idea what to do, she simply stood there, stunned and wounded beyond words. The intensity of her sobs made her head ache, and she grasped the side of the Chevy against a wave of dizziness. Chris reached his arm out quickly to help support her, but after she retained her balance, he hurriedly moved aside.

He paused, the soft orange glow from the cigarette flickering in his eyes. "Listen to me. I am not a father. I will never be a father. That is not who I am. I was not born on this filthy, hellish planet for the purpose of giving life to someone else."

"Then who are you?" she asked coldly.

"I create history so the future will be safe for all the arrogant sons of bitches that care for nothing more than simple pleasures in their own worthless lives…Who am I? I guess one day I'll become just another man without a name."

"Stop. Please stop." Teena whimpered as she buried her wet face in her hands. He grasped her wrist sharply, forcing her to look up.

"You want me to tell you what to do? Fine, I'll tell you what to do. Go home and fuck your husband. Wait a few weeks and then congratulate him that he's going to be a father. I'm sure he'll be thrilled with the "miracle". When the baby comes, just say it's early. Simple as that."

When he did not let go of her, Teena pressed her palms into his chest and shoved him as forcefully as she could.

"I can't believe I ever loved you!" she cried bitterly, tasting the salt of tears mixed with the sourness of bile. "The man I love wouldn't stand there, look into my eyes, and lie to me. What happened, Chris? From the beginning, we were honest with each other."

"You were expecting something more? It was fun for awhile, but maybe you should have been more careful. Good luck with family life," he replied sardonically.

He turned from her casually, stamping the cigarette out on the pavement, and smoothly strode toward his car without looking back.

"I don't believe you!" she hollered with her last thread of effort.

--

He tried not to see her as he started the ignition, because he needed the strength to leave. Following through was essential; she needed to believe it, though he had known she wouldn't. As he pulled away, he kept his head forward resolutely, but his eyes drifted to where she stood, frozen. A gentle rain had begun to fall lightly; and she stood under the illumination of a single streetlight in nothing but a blue checkered house dress, her loose curls falling down her back. Drops of rain streamed over her face, but she kept watching.

After he'd driven a significant distance, tears overcame him. He wept at the hopelessness of it all, of the hurt that would never heal, of the love he knew he was plagued to carry forever. She'd heard what she needed to hear—what he had no choice but to say, not because he wanted to hurt her, but because he loved her enough to sacrifice. When he felt dead and empty, he pulled over into an abandoned parking lot to bridge the time gap. Tonight he would drive to the Vineyard to make sure she arrived home safely, and he promised himself that it would be the last time. While he waited, he reached into his pocket for another cigarette.


	8. Chapter 8

"What about William?"

Teena paused from pasting the back of the teddy bear wall-paper strip and grimaced at her husband, shaking her head.

"You don't like my name?" Bill gasped in mock injury.

"William is nice, but I don't want to have a junior."

"But my father and grandfather were Williams. We can't stop now!" he insisted jokingly, though she knew he was at least in part serious.

"Well my child is going to be unique," she replied, "Maybe William for a second name?"

"Oh fine, I'm defeated. How about a compromise? If we have a little girl, I'll name her, and if it's a boy, you pick. Agreed?"

"That all depends; we have not yet discussed names for a girl."

"Samantha? I've always thought Samantha was a beautiful name," he suggested.

"Of course. I read somewhere that all men love that name. But I agree; it _is_ very pretty."

Teena dragged a chair over from the corner of the room and stepped up so she could smooth a sheet of paper just below the ceiling. When Bill glanced up to see her work, he quickly dropped the section of the crib he'd been hammering and rushed to her side.

"Darling, step down from there right this minute! It isn't safe for you to reach like that. I told you I would do that part."

She merely glared down at him over her shoulder, not moving an inch, and replied resolutely, "Bill, I am an intelligent adult and I will not stand to have you coddling me. Trust that I would not do anything that could be dangerous."

"I know honey, I'm sorry, but you're making me nervous. Everything I love in the world is balancing up there precariously. I just want to protect you both."

"Yes, I realize it's out of love now, but you have been doing it for years, and I don't like it. Those pet names you always use seem to be a means of dressing me down. We are equals in this marriage, you and I, and I wish to be treated as such."

Bill looked at her in hurt, stunned silence, before he seemed to collect his thoughts, and then replied softly, "I'm sorry, Teena. I never knew that bothered you, but that isn't—it isn't how I meant it. Dressing you down, I mean. I don't want you to feel that way. I know I haven't been—I'll work on that, if you just tell me when I say or do something that offends you…I love you, and I want to make you happy. Do I make you happy?" his voice dwindled to a whisper almost as if he were frightened of the answer.

She thought for a moment, and realized that after spending so much time with him, getting to know him over the past few months since he'd vacationed from work just to be with her, she knew the answer. "Yes," she responded honestly. Maybe he wasn't the only one who'd been emotionally detached, unwilling to give a fair chance, refusing to communicate. She didn't love him the way she loved Chris; she never would. Her relationship with Bill was more pleasant than passionate, and though he would never understand and connect with her in the way that Chris had, at least now for the first time he was making an effort. What she felt for Bill was a lesser love, but it was a breed of love nonetheless and it was comfortable. She could live with just being comfortable.

Bill smiled warmly as he passed her the bucket of paste. Before returning to his job at hand, he embraced her around the waist, his head gently resting on the heavy swell of her belly. With one hand she lightly stroked her fingers through his hair. _Yes_, she thought, _I can live like this._

--

The sand felt pleasantly warm under the soles of her bare feet as she leisurely strolled toward the surf. She unfurled her quilt after choosing the perfect spot and eased herself awkwardly to the ground. Bill had gone for the weekend to work on the neglected summer house at Quanochontaug, and though she'd come to enjoy his company, she was looking forward to a couple days of relaxing silence. He'd honestly been trying not to go overboard with his worries and desires to wait on her at every moment, but it had still been more pampering and fussing than Teena could take. Now she could simply sit and enjoy the mid-afternoon July sunshine without any interruptions. She flipped through her journal in search of a blank page, eager to freely express the images that danced in her mind. It had been so long since she'd had a moment to write. But as she breezed through the pages, she came across the message he'd left her.

Her fingers gripped the book until her knuckles turned white while she stared blankly at the words she already knew by heart. The man who had left this note in bittersweet parting was not the man that had nonchalantly and coolly spoken his farewell merely a month later. The sting from that wound had faded quickly, because she knew he had his reasons to lie and she knew their remaining distant was for the best. It was time for a new beginning; a new chapter of her life was unfolding. Deliberately she gripped the corner of the paper in preparation to rip it out of her precious book and fling it into the sea, but she found that she was unable to do it. Fluttering, light jabs of little feet from inside reminded her of the gift he never intended to give. Gently she allowed the pen to flow across the page.

_I keep having this nightmare. In my dream I'm talking and talking like it's for the first time and I'm pouring out my heart and soul so that I can breathe again. And then I'm finished and I feel like I accomplished something, except suddenly I realize that no one heard me. There are people all around, thousands of people and I'm standing in the midst of them, talking. They're silent and watchful, but they can't hear me. I reach out to them, my arms open, but no one takes my hand._

--

"Jesus, Chris. You should lay off those things. There are new studies out that say they can cause cancer," Ronald mumbled as Chris lit up another.

"I'll take my chances…They aren't nearly as good as they once were."

"Then why don't you quit?"

"Because if I smoke more maybe the comfort will return."

"Interesting logic."

Chris brushed a piece of ash from his book and continued reading. Diffused sunlight spilled from the canopy of the umbrella above causing patches of the text to illuminate before him; and in the distance, the monuments of Washington D.C. shone in a blue haze. He'd agreed to meet at the café at Ronald's request, but the two had exchanged few words. Ronald was probably waiting for him to speak up and discuss his thoughts as he'd often done before or to share details of his last assassination mission. Naturally Chris intended to do neither.

"Well…how was the island job?" Ronald asked.

_Ah yes_, Chris thought. _Now we come to what he wants to know._

He would never forget the power, the ecstasy of pressing both barrels of a shotgun into the forehead of Dominican dictator Trujillo. Looking down onto the enemy of western democracy, a wry smile had curled over Chris' lips before he pulled the trigger. He knew it would be easier than the first time, but he'd never expected it to be this…simple. A new power had begun to embrace him: the power of indifference. Seeing himself as an instrument of justice and order had completely overridden any moral objections he might've once had.

"I heard you were the strategy coordinator and chief operative. That's quite a promotion."

"Listen to this, Ronald. It's the most beautiful passage I've ever read.

'As if that blind rage has washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, I that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much life myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.'"

"Camus? That isn't beautiful, it's pathetic. Since when did you become an Existentialist?"

"I'm not anything."

After a long pause, Ronald attempted further prodding.

"Have you heard from Mulder? He and his wife are expecting their first child."

"Yes, I had heard that. He told me some months ago. How lovely."

"…I'm assuming you had nothing to do with it?"

Chris raised an eyebrow and snorted. Digging into his wallet, he fished out a wad of bills and flicked them on the table.

"I'll catch you later, Ronald." He discarded what was left of his cigarette in the ashtray before standing casually, leaving Ronald staring after him in great perplexity.

--

The smell was the first thing to hit her. She'd forgotten it when she'd left years ago, vowing never to return. Perhaps at this particular time she was more sensitive to strong smells than she'd once been. It wasn't necessarily a foul odor; it was just strong and specific—home from a different lifetime. Sweat from the players on the basketball courts, steam rising from the pavement, smog billowing from the buses and taxis, hotdogs cooking at the fast-food stand on the corner—a mélange of all these things became something that might have once been familiar. She hooked her fingers in the holes of the rusted chain-length fence—the same fence she'd brushed her mittined palms across nonchalantly on daily walks to school. High above the basketball court was the small picture window where she'd reclined to write her first journal entry. While she gazed up into the past, players on the court threw curious glances her way, and she knew she looked out of place as a clearly upper-class, heavily pregnant woman strolling by herself in a poor neighborhood in Queens.

She walked on—a stranger to this world, an observer. Her grammar school breezed past on the left, followed by the Temple where she'd attended Shabbat every Friday evening and Hebrew school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Finally on the corner lounged the ugly brick high-rise with a sign out front that read "The Jewish Home: nursing care for the elderly and mentally disabled." She didn't want to do it; she longed to leave forever and never come back, but this was the end of the road.

If the smell of the city had seemed strange and foreign, the atmosphere inside the building assaulted her senses much more so, making her choke in disgust. The musty, rotting odor of death, old age, and neglect flooded the cold green-tiled corridors. She quickly asked for the room number at the nurse's station and hurriedly moved forward on her journey, needing to escape the rows of wheelchairs with their pale, dazed occupants gaping at her menacingly. The door stood open a crack. She knocked lightly, and receiving no response, pushed it open hesitantly. A hunched figure in a faded pink bathrobe, her salt and pepper hair hanging down her back in a long, limp braid, sat in a wheelchair propped in front of the window. Teena wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and quietly took a seat on the foot of the bed. The woman stared out at the street below with sad, glassy, grey eyes. When Teena lightly placed a hand on her shoulder, the woman turned and acknowledged her blankly.

"Are there peaches today?" she asked hollowly.

"I—I don't…What do you mean?" Teena asked softly.

"Lunch is better with peaches. I don't like canned prunes. Or the pears. They're all mushy."

"I'll bring peaches if you want them."

"Can you get them now? Please? I'm very hungry."

"Sure. I'll be right back." After some finagling with the nurse staff, Teena managed to retrieve a can of peaches and a spoon before returning to the room. She popped open the can and handed the woman the spoon, though soon discovered that the older woman couldn't support the utensil in her shaking hand.

"Let me do it," Teena murmured.

Gently she took the spoon and offered the woman a mouthful, which she accepted tentatively, obviously unsure of Teena. The soft grey eyes studied the younger woman's face intently.

"You're pretty," she said, after swallowing a spoonful.

"Thank you," Teena answered absently.

Her eyes swept lower until she caught the glint of silver at the hollow of Teena's neck.

"I used to have a necklace just like that one when I was a girl. It's David's Star," the woman said.

"Yes, I know…You gave this to me when I became a woman. Remember?"

The woman furrowed her brow in confusion. "No, no that's not right. I lost it. I lost it a long time ago. It fell off and I never found it."

"You didn't lose it."

"Isaac will buy me another one after the wedding. He was just here. Can you find him for me?"

"Isaac—Isaac was in an accident. Do you not…I mean I—I'll tell him to come back the next time I see him."

She held her hand up against Teena's offer of another spoonful of syrupy orange fruit.

"I'm tired. I'm always so tired. Tell him to come find me and wake me when he gets here."

"Mama, it's… I'm Teena. Do you know me? Please Mama, look at me. Isaac was my father, but I never knew him. He died before you got married. Mama, I miss you, please…"

The older woman turned and peacefully gazed outside into the smog-ridden sky as though she didn't hear. Teena leaned over to rest her head on her mother's shoulder.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit. It was so hard for me to see you like this. I was afraid to see you like this. I just wanted to remember the way you were and then go on and build a new life. Can you ever forgive me, Mama? I—I want you to know that everything turned out okay. I'm married. I'm happy. You'll be a grandmother soon," she said, running a hand over her belly.

She lifted her head to study her mother's eyes, but they remained blank and lifeless.

"I have to tell you something, Mama. You're going to be ashamed of me, but I have to tell you. I fell in love with a man that is not my husband, and we…we were together. I broke one of the most important commandments. He's the father of my baby. My husband is a good man, and I love him. I lied to him, because I don't want to hurt him. Chris just…Chris is more. I didn't mean for it to happen, but it's almost as if…Do you remember how you always used to say that God splits each soul in two halves before putting them into separate bodies? You said Isaac was the other half of you, that God made you together and helped you find each other again. When he died, you said there could never be anyone else, because half of you was gone. Well, if that's true, then this other man—Chris—he's part of me. We just didn't find each other soon enough, I guess. It's funny, I've been thinking about this quite a bit lately. Now that I'm going to be mother, I think of my child and I wonder, is there someone for you? I hope you find happiness in a way I never could…I do love my husband, and I'm trying to be a good wife…But I'm confused. I'm just confused, Mama, and I'm lost, and I wish you could help me. Tell me what to do."

"Life doesn't stop unless you let it. Everyone thinks they know, but they don't know." Teena jumped at the instant response. In truth, she'd believed that she was only talking to herself. The woman paused a moment before continuing, "And you can spend forever worrying about the end, but you'll forget where to put your feet. Keep the baby. You'll need him just as much as he'll need you. Let him set things right."

"I don't understand. I don't understand what you mean."

A light, a shift, a familiarity, passed over the older woman's eyes, and for a brief moment, they didn't seem as clouded. But after she finished speaking, she was once again a bent, broken stranger.

"I'm tired. Will you help me to bed?"

"Yes, Mama."

After Teena had pulled the bed sheet up to her mother's neck, she kissed the woman's forehead, promising to visit again soon. But she never did.

--

Chris sat on the bench, frozen, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin resting on his folded hands. Silently he watched a group of Negro children playing on a slide, barefoot in the center of a cement jungle that some people might call a park. Their innocent, shrill laughter blended into the monotonous noise of the city. One of the boys fell from the ladder as he tried to race another to the top, and his small face crinkled and collapsed before he called for "Daddy."

Just then, his focus shifted as she walked out of the front door of the old building. He sucked in his breath when he saw her; it had been several months since he'd been this close. She didn't see him; he'd known she wouldn't. By chance, he'd spotted her hailing a cab in Brooklyn, so naturally he'd chosen to follow her. After she'd entered the building, he'd waited a few minutes before confidently striding inside, flashing his government I.D. to the front desk, and learning that the pretty young woman in the lavender dress was on her way to pay a visit to Edith Hirsch. Then for some reason that he couldn't fathom, he'd crossed the street to the park to wait for her. Now he watched her from a short distance as she purposefully strode back the way she'd come, her eyes on the ground in front of her. Her gait was slower and much altered; her back swayed to support the new weight of her midsection, and she pressed a fist into the curve of her spine. Chris berated himself, for he realized that he was on the verge of tears.


End file.
